Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account
by Synthesis
Summary: In AC 195, five Gundams come to Earth in Operation 'M', testing the strength, virtue and intelligence of officers and soldiers of the world's armed forces. After failing his first encounter, one ex-engineer has a chance at a better outcome, and takes it. An effort to reconcile 'Gundam Wing' with 'The Glory of Losers', from the perspective of those in OZ.
1. Prologue

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 1 **–** Prologue**

When they spun alive and firing, the two rotary cannons inside the chest cavity of the red-and-white attacking Gundam were unbearable—whether it was the sound they produced or the actual, obvious danger they presented to the closing squadron wasn't clear to the engaging pilot, but it was like some masochist had thrown Walker into washing machine with a half-dozen cement blocks and set it to permanent press. When the enemy pilot finally ran out of ammunition for both them and its arm-carried gatling gun, and the cannons' report died down, he felt like he could think properly again.

He wanted to let off a list of curses, but all he could force out "Damn it, maybe one-twenty-five caliber? One-thirty?" It mostly came out as unintelligible mumble—he was so tense, it felt like his jaw had frozen. That was the engineer in him, coming out at an inconvenient moment.

"He's…he's out of ordnance! We did it!" One of Walker's wingmen, Arrow 1-4, cried out.

Either his jaw finally unfroze, or he overcame his self-imposed mental block, and he responded over his headset. "Stay on guard! Don't assume anything!"

_Did it work? _Walker checked his port and starboard display monitors. With the Gundam having expended all its ammunition, and only joined by another Gundam that carried no range weapons as far as he knew, the Aries troops formed a perimeter within a dangerous hundred-meter radius—a deliberate choice, it seemed like the best distance that their chain rifles would puncture that damnable Gundanium alloy rather than bouncing off uselessly. _At this distance, we're going to worry about shooting through him at eachoth-…_

"I'll show you what the _Speciali _are made of!" Arrow 1-4 screamed, breaking formation and diving at the red-and-white Gundam.

"Fool! You think we can afford a mistake _now_?" he yelled back at him. It took less than a second for him to realize this mistake actually hadn't amounted to much—the whole unit had made a fatal mistake anyway—as points lit up one of his multi-function displays.

"Contact!" Arrow 1-3's pilot screeched, panicking.

As soon as it had worked, the operation promptly fell apart. Enemies raked their position with cannon fire from the ground, unconcerned with friendly fire hitting the Gundams on the ground. "All callsigns, regroup and…"

His voice was drowned out by the sound of Arrow 1-4 exploding at his 7 o'clock. A high-caliber cannon shell, probably APFSDS, punched through his machine's cranial compartment, passing cleanly through. Another shot punctured through the thinner armor on the machine's back, triggering an ammo explosion, showering the Gundam he'd stupidly charged with harmless shrapnel.

"Regroup!" he screamed again. "Arrow Actual to Raptor Actual, we're taking suppressing fire from heading three-five-two, I repeat, taking fire and need assistance."

The high-power zoom lens in his main camera brought the enemy within vision. Years of studying every design he could get his hands on paid off, and he recognized them immediately: they were Winner Corporation models, in brown and tan colors. _The Maganac Corps._

Loud radio static responded, telling him his antenna had been hit already and that calling for help was useless. At their most vulnerable from below, his flight was getting shot down one by one. Their promised ground cover, Raptor Flight, was probably wiped out by the Maganacs already.

_Damn it all, if we're all dying here, Bonaparte better give our sacrifices some bloody meaning! _He gave one last glance at General Bonaparte's escaping command ship, an armored zeppelin of all things, as it managed to vanish in the heavy clouds of smoke rising over Corsica Base. A few minutes earlier he'd promised Bonaparte he fully intended to give anything, including his own life, if it meant securing the ranking officer's safe escape, and he meant it!

_If a 'Specials' soldier can't do his duty to a general officer of the United Earth Sphere Alliance Army, he's not worthy of that name, right? _With a flick of the switch, he reversed the thrust of his twin turbofans, then leaned on the throttle until he hit emergency war power and rapidly put some distance between him and the second black-and-white Gundam. He then switched to an open frequency. _Bonaparte, if you don't take this opportunity, you'll join me in hell. _

Bowing to his emotions, mostly rage and fear, he gave one last defiant scream over the short-range backup antenna. "Come and get me, you monster!"

The new plan was simple and desperate: if he made the Gundam come to him, it wouldn't be going after the zeppelin. With his enemy lacking any range weapons, he'd have to put up a chase, letting Walker exploit the Aries' legendary maneuverability in the air. Then, he'd hoped to live up to the Aries' name, ramming the pursuing Gundam. One last plan: _I think I have just enough fuel and ordnance left to crack through the armored shell around the cockpit compartment, and through just one tiny hole, flood it with super-heated gas, exploding shrapnel, burning jet fuel and even my own cindered guts if it means killing that damn pilot!_

Or not. With unbelievable speed—perhaps the defining trademark of those damnable Gundams—the enemy pilot caught him between his two massive heat shotels, the curved blades actually cutting through the titanium alloy that made the Aries.

Every alarm in his cockpit went off simultaneously, as the glass of his displays cracked, shattered and showered him with glass. Even with the goggles, he blinked instinctively as his machine was crushed from outside.

_How close I was to taking him with me? _He found himself barely holding back a terrified chuckle as the most crucial alarms rang. "I…I wanted to see what this machine was capable of…" he admitted to himself as a wayward electrical current went through the systems behind his seat and into his arms and legs. It was the worst electrical shock he'd ever experienced, worse than anything a career as an engineer at Corsica Base had thrown at him, and it was just a symptom of what was probably cooking his insides.

Walker had prepared for this. He was waiting for his life to flash before his eyes, for the familiar scenes to dance by before he descended into nonexistence, scenes from his childhood in North America, his adolescence at Lake Victoria. When that didn't appear, he waited for the specific faces of those close to him—his mother, his younger sister Aretha, the many faces of those who'd most left the great impression on him. His master during his apprenticeship at the Corsica Mobile Suit Works, his instructor at Lake Victoria, his old commander, the Lightning Baron.

But none of them came. And then everything there was went white, then black, and he faded into nothingness. Flight Officer Walker could have sworn, as ridiculous as it was, that the last outside stimuli he registered was a unfamiliar voice earnestly telling him, "I'm sorry."

_I'm sorry too. _


	2. Mediterranean Shores

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 2 **– Mediterranean Shores****

_"We don't need the Specials. They'll just use this as another excuse to show off. Remember, those men confuse the battleground with some sort of aristocratic game. They want to fight so badly, they go looking for it themselves. I'll teach those bloodthirsty Specials a few things about intelligent warfare!"_

- Brigadier General Alfonso Bonaparte, Alliance Army

The year is After Colony 195. The Earth Sphere—humanity's homeworld and the artificial colonies in orbit of it—is largely dominated by the Alliance, a multinational military government that has long since extended beyond the reach of its humble civilian leadership and its original mission: to prevent the catastrophic warfare and genocide of earlier centuries. The Alliance has succeeded because, while its armed forces consist is just a fraction of the last centuries' world, they've done so under a united banner and with the unshakable resolve of their beliefs. For the Alliance, as in the past, political power has become inseparable from military power, and its leadership enjoys a near-complete monopoly on both.

Within the Alliance military, the elite Special Mobile Suit Troops, called _Speciali _in the Italian long preferred by the Alliance top brass, has made great strides both in military effectiveness and the sciences of warfare, both doctrinal and industrial. They represent the convergence of elite training and development and refinement of the most elite of military weapons, the mobile suit. Accordingly, there were a great many within the Alliance military who distrusted the Speciali: young leaders, directly questioning the traditions of the Alliances. Under their commander, Colonel Treize Khushrenada, the Speciali have continued to ensure their own indispensability within the Alliance war machine. To add to the suspicion, Colonel Khushrenada sits on the secretive board of the Romefeller Foundation, one of the many bodies that had made it financially possible for the Alliance to rise to such great heights.

Thus, the Speciali are not just a distinguished military unit, but directly control the supply and development of mobile suits within the Alliance, as well as being charged with the training of the Alliance's most crucial combat army corps. Their reputation on the battlefield is excellent, earning them an unspoken right to act independently, in any battle, as they see fit. However, it can't be denied that this status has angered the traditional military establishment even further.

When he came to in a the recovery ward of a military hospital, Oswald Walker immediately felt two things.

The first was surprise—surprise that he should wake up at all. He hadn't been expecting to.

The second was terror—terror that he'd done something to his back and was paralyzed, because he couldn't feel his legs. As it happened, the reason he couldn't feel his legs was because he was literally opiated out of his eyeballs. The next day, he was able to feel his legs and even wiggle his toes.

Befitting their reputation, the men and women of the Speciali had become a common sight in Alliance military hospitals around the world with the arrival of the Gundams from Outer Space. It was now certain that this was no impromptu raid, but an planned effort to disrupt Alliance governance of the space colonies by targeting its most strategic military reserves on the homeworld. The Special Mobile Suit Troops were first to be engaged, first in combat over the Pacific Ocean, then the attack on the military factories at Corsica. Thankfully, this wasn't Walker's first experience with short term physiotherapy. Two years earlier, during the Pyongyang Raid, his unit had been tasked to defend the Korean city from space-launched nonnuclear ballistic missiles, while the Alliance moved on the Colonials from their staging point over Earth.

Amid that attack, Walker's first OZ-07AMS 'Aries' was shot down over the Sea of Japan, to his considerable embarrassment. After they fished him out he spent two weeks in the Third Alliance Naval Hospital in Yokohama. The Pyongyang missiles were intercepted anyway and the Colonial raiders repulsed largely by Alliance Space Forces. Walker ended up with a set of pins in his left leg that he had only had removed a few months before the Gundams descended on Earth, and he spent his recovery in his old profession: mobile suit engineering.

He learned he'd fared worse the second time he'd had a mobile suit destroyed from underneath him than the first, to the point that no number of pins in his leg was going to fix it. Part of the reason he'd been so heavily drugged was to account for the lung transplant—his actual lungs were so full of superheated glass, plastics and polycarbonates that they'd been scalded from the inside.

Additionally, he'd gotten a new heart—as a child, he'd been told he'd had a "minor heart murmur" that was supposed to have been treated years ago. Apparently, the current produced by his machine's avionics were just powerful enough to undo that, and shortly after his lungs were replaced, the surgeons elected to replace his heart as well. The not-so-funny mental image of his doctors deciding to leave him open _just in case_ persisted in his head.

All of his replacement organs had belonged to a healthy shift assistant manager at Corsica who'd been put in an unrecoverable coma when the Gundams first attacked, a year younger than him, just out of secondary school. He'd been told shrapnel had basically carved out the inside of her skull, so as long as there was nothing wrong with his head, she could supply the rest. If there was ever a time to remember to wear eye-protection, that was it.

The Fifth Alliance Naval Hospital, in the seaside Corsican city of Ajaccio, was where he was treated. For all he knew, the poor shift manager had been an amateur long-distance runner, because it wasn't long before his lungs and heart actually felt better than he had remembered.

As the doctor said, "Just don't go running any marathons, are we clear, Flight Lieutenant Walker?"

That was another thing—he'd been promoted. The 1st Company of the 44th Special Airborne Division, Middle Eastern Air Army—in his case, squadron callsigns Arrow, Beacon and Crow—had been reduced to about one-fourth operation strength and been disbanded, being absorbed into the the air army reserves. Despite that gloomy outcome, they were heroes—Brigadier General Bonaparte and his command staff had evacuated, and were alive.

It was 16 April, one week after the Battle of Corsica. Though he was largely on his feet again, he'd been left entirely out of the loop—after the battle, and with the Corsica Works still in ruins, the French island was practically in its own world, quiet and isolated. The hospital staff did nothing about the communications blackout with the mainland, it seemed as though the whole of the Alliance seemed to be plagued by sporadic communications. It was when his younger sister Aretha, an Alliance Space Forces Second Lieutenant, had shown up. She'd arrived Earthside, just now learning her brother, listed as killed-in-action was actually wounded and in recovery. After she'd cried for about ten minutes after seeing him—a surprise to him, he'd never thought they were that close—she managed to debrief him. Aretha was a staff officer, her visit itself was a surprise to him and his physicians.

"The Forty-Fourth's gone," Arethra told him, following him through the hallways of the recovery ward. Walker opened his mouth to groggily curse in response, when Aretha cut him off. "But Bonaparte's not letting it go. He said he owes the Specials his life…"

"He sort of does," Walker mumbled, opening a door and stepping onto a balcony overlooking the Mediterranean. The converted villa that housed the hospital had picturesque views in any direction.

"…and he's fought for you tooth-and-nail. Apparently, the Defense Ministry doesn't care about replacing the units lost at Corsica until the works themselves are actually rebuilt, 'waste of money'. Bonaparte says he'll resign of he has too."

Walker smirked, saying nothing.

"What's that mean?" Aretha countered, sounding a little annoyed.

"Overreact much? He'll still have his command, if not in Corsica, then somewhere else in the Mediterranean Military District."

Aretha stopped and put her hands on her hips. "Did you ever think that, maybe, Bonaparte is doing it out of _loyalty_? To _you_?"

That shut Walker up, which Aretha unsurprisingly took advantage of.

"Cynical's not a good look for you, Oswald."

_That's a particularly poor name for someone in my profession. _"Please don't call me that." He tried to change the subject. "How're the Space Forces treating you?"

"I'm more worried about you," she countered. "Your career was the Middle East Air Army. And being in the Specials, your career was your whole life."

"Please don't exaggerate," he said, leaning on the balcony, his arms clamped his blue-and-white gown. He didn't have the best relationship with his sister. "Everyone now knows the M.E.A.A. had low anti-mobile suit strength, it was never intended for that. Naval interdiction, air defense, strategic bombing, those are what the unit existed for, and it's what it's done for the last decade."

Aretha looked at him, apparently unsure of what he meant.

He sighed and continued. "If the Gundams, as we're calling them now, are the real enemy, which it seems clear they are, a unit that doesn't prioritize anti-mobile suit warfare isn't going to be helpful."

Aretha's short visit made him even more desperate to return to duty, and something convinced his doctor—either Walker or maybe one of his superiors—that he needed to return. He'd heard that the Lighting Baron, Zechs Merquise, was now using the OZ-00MS 'Tallgeese', the historic artifact Walker had found and planned the restoration of before he was wounded in action. Above all, he wanted to meet Zechs—he knew there was a slim-to-none chance he'd get to serve in the Lightning Baron's unit like the old days, but at the very least, he should have been there for restoration and operation of the 20-year-old prototype. Walker wasn't the only OZ-certified engineer in the Speciali, far from it, but he had a horrible feeling that Zechs and his unit would be taking the machine into their own hands. Someone who would overlook some safety consideration or think that 15 g was _survivable_, and get themselves killed: if it was Zechs Merquise, the single person Walker personally knew that commanded the most respect, man or woman, he couldn't live with himself.

**II**

It was five days after Aretha's visit. He was extremely anxious to be released back into service.

"Flight Lieutenant, please take a deep breath...now…"

Walker inhaled and exhaled as methodically as he could.

"Flight Lieutenant? You finally did it," Dac said.

Standing next to him, in the physiotherapy doctor's office, was a familiar face—Pilot Officer David Ackerson Bishop, 21st Special Air Division, North African Air Army. "Dac" as most called him belonged to an earlier class at the Lake Victoria Academy, the top mobile suit training school in Earth Sphere. It _was _the top school because the faculty was made up of veteran Speciali. Put more cynically, the school was the best because all the Alliance cadets there were trained by OZ—the so-called "Order of the Zodiac" that developed mobile suits. With his boyish features, blond hair and blue-grey eyes, Dac was actually a familiar, comforting sight. Mostly.

Dac smirked, in that unoffensive way of his. He was in Corsica on his way to the Alliance Air Base at Brandenburg, but the Gundam attack had detained him for now. "More like 'about damn time,' am I right?"

Walker chuckled back. "Thank you."

"Or should I say 'about damn time, _sir_'?"

"Enough, Dac."

The annoyed doctor removed his stethoscope, shot them both a glance, and put it back on. "Flight Lieutenant, if you'd please, again, with less talking."

Walker nodded and took a deeper breath, before exhaling again, and waited for the doctor to return to his chart before speaking again. "By the way, happy birthday. How was it?"

Dac grinned, shrugging. "Like any eighteenth birthday in the army. I can finally buy a drink in French bar."

"_Mazel tov_."

The doctor returned, this time holding a hypodermic syringe. Dac immediately looked away, as Walker raised an eyebrow at the physician. "Another one, doctor?"

"Your last one, I promise. Cholera."

Walker rolled back his hunter green wool coat sleeve and his white dress shirt and the doctor injected the vaccine. When he finished, he removed the needle and Dac turned back.

"I like the new uniform," he said, quickly, a little too casually.

Walker did the sleeve back and nodded. As a flight officer, he had worn the uniform the Special Troops were best known for, and that Dac still wore—a hunter green tunic with the same cut as the olive single-breasted jackets worn by Alliance military officers, with long gold-and-maroon epaulets, closed collars and sleeve trim. What he wore now was slightly different—Speciali flight lieutenants still wore dark green, nearly black daily uniforms, but they consisted of double-breasted coats with no lapels, short epaulets with bullion fringe, over the same gold-and-maroon collars. Additionally flight lieutenants had a different style of folding cap that they rarely wore.

When he first joined the Speciali, Walker, more an engineer than an officer, had privately mocked the increasingly anachronistic-looking attire of the higher officers. The red uniforms worn by lieutenant colonels and blue uniforms worn by colonels, even more so. Now that he was wearing one, and the culture of the Speciali had taken its effect, he had to hide how proud he was to wear the Napoleonic-style uniforms.

"Let's hope I live up to it."

"We're all done here," the annoyed doctor told him. "Good luck, Flight Lieutenant. Don't forget your poncho and your knife."

Dac laughed as Walker immediately turned to nearby counter, taking the white silk-lined leather cape and ceremonial saber, folding them into a bundle and leaving the room hurriedly. Dac followed him.

"You're not actually going to wear that…sir…?"

"I might," he responded, holding them in his arms. "Why not?"

Dac skipped a few steps ahead and mockingly curtsied him, grinning from ear to ear.

"Have fun in Africa, glorious flight lieutenant. Make _His__ Lordship_, the Lightning Baron proud."

"Take care of yourself, Dac. But I'm sure nothing _bad _ever happened in Germany."

**III**

Returning to service meant stepping aboard a Tupolev passenger aircraft, where he'd left "Alliance territory"—the Fifth Naval Hospital in Corsica—to return to his comrades in the Speciali. Practically it was a tiny difference, but after almost two weeks, it meant the world to him. After nearly getting his cape caught in the gap between the jetway and the door, he took a seat among the other Speciali, other officers who had been fortunate enough to make it out of Corsica with his lives, now engaged in conversations as though it were any other day. _Maybe spirits are just high. Not a bad thing._

He scanned the cabin, confirming what he'd feared back in the hospital. _No one else from the Forty-Fourth. So I'm alone for now._

As though reading his mind, a flight officer spoke up at him down the aisle. "Lieutenant Walker, Forty-Fourth Division?"

Walker almost smiled, only stopping when he confirmed the man speaking at him was a stranger. "Yes, do I know you?" he asked, a little sadly.

"Sorry, no sir. I'm friends with a P/O in the same unit, Benjamin Disraeli," he explained, gesturing at the empty seat, which Walker took. "He was looking at photos, trying to find survivors from Corsica, you came up."

Walker nodded. "I've heard his name, but we're not that acquainted."

"That's what he said. I apologize, sir."

"It's no problem," Walker assured him.

"Excuse me, sirs!" a voice called out. Walker and the other officers turned to the front of the cabin, where they saw a rough-dressed pilot officer and warrant officer, their hunter green uniforms unbuttoned and missing their collars. The cabin grew silent, as the passengers waited for one of the two women to speak.

The pilot officer swallowed nervously, squeezing her folding cap in one hand. "As your pilot, it's my sad duty to…to inform you that we've just received word of a Gundam attack on the Lake Victoria Academy…"

The cabin remained silent for another second before, almost in unison, the mobile suit pilots that filled the cabin cried out in horror, disbelief, or just broke out into distorted swearing and cursing.

"The damage reports are still coming in, but it looks like a single Gundam destroyed an airlifter carrying new mobile suits, along with multiple hangars and at least one student dormitory." Standing behind her, her co-pilot had both her hands closed in fists, and was barely holding back angry tears.

The man sitting next to him, a young Latino with thin rimmed glasses, visibly began crying, tossing off his spectacles and covering his eyes with his gloves. For his part, Walker simply sat in shock, his jaw slack, as he tried to process what he was hearing.

"…if any of you have family at the academy, you're welcome to use the telephones in the back of the cabin. We expect to taxi onto the runway so, but for the time being, the aircraft crew will be taking a moment of silence…for the tragedy that's just happened."

"_Iesus _Khrīstos__…" someone could be heard mumbling among the whimpering and crying.

It was no exaggeration to say that every man and woman in the front cabin was a Lake Victoria graduate. What had just happened was practically the worst nightmare of any Speciali, come to life.

The pilot and co-pilot stood in the front of the cabin for another moment, tears streaming down the co-pilot's face, before returning to the cockpit.

Walker stared at the two Speciali sitting opposite to him in his booth, a Caucasian man and woman who were both flight officers, holding each other's hand on the armrest between them. The woman was wearing a medical eye patch over one eye, but tears streamed out of the other one as she whimpered silently.

And he just sat there, closing his mouth finally. He didn't expect to cry himself, but there was still a dull ache in his new heart, one he wasn't sure how to express.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Putting the cards on the table:<em>**

_Hi there! Thanks for your interest, but past chapter ten as I write this, I felt I owed it to any readers to explain a few things. First, I restarted writing this purely on a whim, but seeing how I've grown quite fond of it, I think it deserves a little more thought. _

_This is normally where the "author's notes" would be, since the website offers no better way to handle it to my knowledge. First, what is this? You could say that, on top of the obvious, it's a reinterpretation of the events of _Gundam Wing _as well as the new manga _Endless Waltz: The Glory of Losers. _In addition to trying to reconcile both stories, I'm also offering my own "rational" interpretation of the events. In the tradition of _Gundam_, _Gundam Wing _can be pretty ridiculous at times. To try to address the occasionally zany narrative from the standpoint of a rational individual can be pretty fun. Additionally, this story is told from the perspective of Walker, and by extension from the perspective of men and women in OZ, and with according sympathies. That's probably quite obvious by this point. While even Sunrise Entertainment (who, by the way, own_ New Mobile Suit Report: Gundam Wing _and it's associated video productions)__ calls the Gundam pilots "terrorists", I personally think the word is thrown around too much in our day and age, but at the same time will be telling this in a way less sympathetic to them compared to the loyal opposition.__  
><em>

_With that out of the way, hopefully you'll keep reading, and if you've any criticism, compliments, or insights, I almost always enjoy hearing them. My original _Soldier of OZ_ was a collaborative effort in the sense that the ideas were born of various people's interpretations, and for all of its faults, I don't think that was one of them. _


	3. Khushrenada's Secret, I

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 3 **– Khushrenada's Secret, I**  
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_One month since the Battle of Corsica, Nairobi Air Force Base._

Since the "end" of martial law in East Africa in AC 181, Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, southeast of Nairobi, had been militarized into the headquarters of the East African Air Army, the third of the three Alliance Air Armies in the African Continent—one for each Alliance military district. Though it was staffed by civilian and military workers, Bantu people from throughout the country, the actual military mobile suit presence, as well as much of the rest of the Alliance Army and a large portion of the Alliance Air Force personnel, originated from throughout Europe and Asia. Accordingly, they had no idea who Jomo Kenyatta was, and the installation was almost universally referred to as "Nairobi Air Force Base." Civilian traffic had been diverted to other airports in the region, like Moi.

Nairobi was strategically important to the Alliance—good access to multiple port-cities on the Indian Ocean via railways, close proximity to the dozen oil refineries in South Kenya that refined the imported crude oil that the UESA and the region as a whole needed.

Kenyan perceptions of the Alliance were a varied, but mostly positive. The elderly were direct witnesses to the extensive military campaigns conducted by the African Union with the formation of the United Earth Sphere Alliance sixty years ago. In the subsequent half-century, there had only been one "hot war" in the entirety of continental Africa, at the Battle of Mogadishu, an impressive feat. Years before, in AC 139, the UESA had allowed the relatively bloodless three-day annexation of all twelve districts of South Somalia by Kenya. This wasn't an exaggeration: since its founding, the Alliance had not lost a single formal war against any particular country, from the Republic of Utah to the Sanc Kingdom. On the increasingly rare occasions that Alliance soldiers engaged the remains of what had been the world armies, the Alliance consistently obliterated the opposition. Part of that was the edge supplied by mobile suits; the rest was the supremacy of Alliance tactics and numbers.

On the other hand, particularly in Nairobi, people were less enthralled with the heavy interference of the Alliance East African Military District on domestic politics. Centuries ago, in the dangerous neighborhood of Somalia, anarchy reigned and guns flowed. Nowadays, even the police didn't always carry firearms: everything was controlled by the Alliance, and the African Union.

Flight Lieutenant Oswald Walker actually liked Kenya. Particularly in Nairobi, the people were very cosmopolitan and reminded him a little of his childhood in Windsor in North America. Besides Swahili, they were fluent in English, which made communication easy. On a personal level, they seemed impressed by his rank in the _Speciali_—that it was clear from his uniform that he wasn't one of the "Alliance riffraff" as they haughtily called them.

He was waiting for an assignment—there were two Speciali units in Nairobi, the 33rd Independent and the 19th Airborne Mobile Suit Battalions, but they were awaiting orders to be reassigned to India and elsewhere. The moment Walker had dreaded for years had come: for the first time in his career, Walker was one of the _non assegnatti_, the name for active-duty Speciali pilots who weren't attached to a Special Mobile Suit Division or Battalion. Practically all of them were attached to Alliance units—Zechs Merquise was a well-known example.

It was pretty normal for high-ranking Speciali, but for Walker, it was just a memory of how much he missed the Forty-Fourth. Serving with the Alliance Army Mobile Suit Troops was a reminder of just what separated them from the Speciali: for their part, the Alliance considered them upstarts, spoiled, dangerous brats. The Speciali considered the Alliance pilots rude, corrupt, and violent jarheads.

"Hey, Lieutenant, you still here?"

Walker was sitting in the open cockpit of an OZ-07AMS 'Aries', in Alliance cadet grey livery. Being a non assegnatti had given him more time to ply his engineer training, even if he found the Alliance Aries pilots a little obnoxious. Plus, if the call came, all non assegnatti would climb into Alliance mobile suits and fight, and potentially die, along their Alliance comrades. Even the Alliance pilots understood and appreciated that.

At the very least, throwing himself into engineering took his mind off what had happened at Lake Victoria. "Hey, Ozzie!" the same voice yelled.

For a second, Walker wondered if 'Ozzie' referred to his rarely-used given name. _Probably not. Probably just OZ. _"I'm in here Beauttah," he responded, flipping the master electronics back and forth.

Chief Engineer Beauttah, a Kenyan with almost twenty years in the Alliance Army technical services, treated the third hangar at Nairobi has his personal residence and the mobile suits in it as his possessions. Hangar No. 3 housed fourteen OZ-06MS 'Leo' mobile suits, including one command model, along with Nairobi's scant four Aries air defense machines, which Beauttah was charged with. He did not like Walker poking around, but there was little he could do about it.

Beauttah climbed up the ladder onto the gantry and peered into the Aries, as Walker tapped a finger against the top-left forward switch panel.

"Something the matter, _sir_?" Beauttah asked sarcastically.

"Unit three's turbofans," he asked, referring to the suit he was sitting in, "Are they Aviadvigatel or Pratt & Whitney?"

Beauttah frowned, leaned into the port top turbofan airtake, then turned back to him. "Pratt & Whitney."

Walker nodded in agreement. "Mmhmm. And tell me, for Pratt & Whitney E500-A6 turbofans, like this one, what's the thrust-to-weight ratio?"

"Eight-point-one to one, why?"

Walked pulled himself out of the cockpit, then jammed a stack of paper printouts into Beauttah's chest, and replied angrily, "Then why can't this unit break seven to one? Your Pratt & Whitney's either need overhaul or they need to be replaced."

Beauttah stared at Walker, confused, then past the silhouette of the Aries at the open hangar doors immediately behind it. Walker took the red pencil out from behind his ear, removed his goggles and replaced his garrison cap. "I _knew _I heard something half-an-hour ago! You bloody busybody, don't you have anything better to do with your time?"

"I'm amazed you can sleep through that," Walker countered, climbing onto the top rung of the ladder.

"Wait!" Beauttah reached into his work satchel and took something wrapped in wax paper. "This came for you, from that jeweler in Nairobi."

He tossed it to Walker, who caught it. Holding onto the ladder, he tore the wax paper open with his teeth and removed a layer of bubble wrap to reveal a small, polished disk of titanium with chrome electroplating.

"What's that?" Beauttah asked.

"You've never seen a mobile suit pennant before?" he asked, holding it up. The pennant medallion bore the emblem of the Special Mobile Suit Troops, a defaced Alliance coat-of-arms, and a small inscription.

"Not really, no. What are they for?"

"Well, if you belong to an old family or clan, you have one of these things engraved with your coat of arms and your motto. Identification's etched on the back. It's designed to survive a crash or even an ammunition explosion. I don't personally, but I still have a slot in the center of my machine's seat over the battery access to mount one." _They're rare in the Alliance, but all Speciali have them, even those from the proletariat. And I doubt they'll find mine._

"So what does yours say?"

He looked at it. "When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child. But when I grew up, I put away childish things." He looked back up at the chief engineer.

"That's from First Corinthians," Beauttah said, his voice softer. "I didn't know you were religious."

"I'm not. On the contrary, I'm an atheist. But I do enjoy that saying. Oh, and by the way, the semi-active radar guidance is sketchy. Seems like voltage fluctuations. If active radar and laser go down or aren't available, the backup better damn well work flawlessly."

With his leather gloves Walker slid down to hangar floor and walked over to his motorcycle, leaving Beauttah up there.

"Oh, how about I just install a wire-guide? That way, someone has to cut your bloody missile wires to fuck up your shot!" Beauttah yelled back down at him as he climbed onto his motorcycle, put on his goggles again, and kicked up the stand.

"Just the semi-active, Chief," Walker replied before drowning out his voice with the four-stroke engine and peeling off out of the hangar.

Beauttah watched Walker's motorcycle leave the hangar and sighed, before reaching for the telephone on the hangar wall. "Nzima? It's Beauttah in number three…they're fine, except we'll need to rebuild unit three's turbofans. Probably all of them. Yes, I know."

**II  
><strong>

Walker wouldn't say he "loved" motorcycles—he _was _a gearhead, as he'd been told, and motorcycles had been where he cut his teeth on as a mechanic, as an apprentice at a motorcycle repair shop in Windsor when he was twelve, even before he'd considered a military career. Back then he might have loved motorcycles, but in the seven years since then, he'd been forced to approach mechanics from a practical standpoint, whether they were motorcycles, automobiles, aircraft or mobile suits. He'd worked on all of them in wartime, and he'd come to one conclusion: the greatest military machine in the world, without a human operator, was a large, expensive proof-of-concept or the world's largest paperweight.

Accordingly, it wasn't much of an exaggeration to say that humans—in the case of the military, soldiers, officers, pilots—were valued, not machines. Now, he wasn't about to claim that a single human life was automatically of greater strategic worth than a 100,000-ton fusion-powered aircraft carrier and the forty Aries mobile suits it could carry, but that was false equivalency anyway.

_It becomes harder to love machines if you're obsessed with making sure their human users come back alive, even at the cost of machines. _The Aries he lost in Corsica had been his since the Pyongyang Raid two years ago, and while he regretted losing it, it wasn't so much the machine he missed as much as the failure to accomplish his objective in it. It wasn't really 'his' anyway, no _sane _mobile suit pilot 'owned' his or her machine—it was property of the United Earth Sphere Alliance.

He _did _own his bike, literally. He'd ordered it off the Network shortly before leaving from a seller in France, a direct replacement of the bike he'd lost in Corsica, an ancient Armstrong MT500 that had become popular again in England around AC 190. It had a 481 cc air-cooled engine, single cylinder four-stroke, and was a good match for his size. Walker guessed his old bike was destroyed when the Gundams destroyed the utility lift he'd left it on when he boarded his Aries.

_I'm starting to resent them_, he thought, has he drove down Airport South Road. _Especially the black-and-white one. _He bounced on the bikes suspension as he passed over a rough section of road, watching the sun set in the west.

In a few minutes, he became aware that he was being followed, or at least, he wasn't alone on the road. Glancing in his left rearview mirror, he spotted something reflecting the setting sun back at him—in a few seconds, it grew larger and louder as it approached him, and he could make out its distinct report, different from his old four-stroke—it was probably three times the size of his, by engine displacement. The motorcycle was also a sport bike design, even a superbike, probably Japanese, and much heavier than his military bike.

Walker drifted towards the shoulder as the superbike slowed down to his speed, giving him a good look at it. _A Suzuki Hayabusa. You don't see those very often, not in Africa anyway. _

He was actually more interested in the rider: it was a woman in a formfitting leather motorcyclist's suit, solid black and zipped in the front. Her head was completely hidden by a closed full face helmet, painted white with a black visor. Out of the back of the helmet, she had long, thick black hair that reached to her waist.

The rider glanced at him at he stared at her, the visor still obscuring her features, before turning back to the road and accelerating away. Walker almost didn't notice that, attached to her seat, was a military saddlebag with the emblem of the Speciali sewn into the leather.

_Was that…her? Why would she be here?  
><em>

**III  
><strong>

"So who was it?"

Walker looked up. Flight Officer Tycho Nichol, a Speciali officer a few years Walker's senior and an ambitious, worldly man by comparison. Nichol may have lacked battlefield leadership experience, but he made up for it in flexibility: he'd served in as an attaché for the Alliance Space Forces, overseeing management of mobile suit troops.

"I told you, I didn't see her face."

Nichol rephrased the question. "All right, who did you _think_ it was?"

This was typical for a slow day at Nairobi, which was everyday. He stood over him as he sat in the media room, whose walls were lined with televisions set to various news channels. Several tables in the middle had computers stacked on them, near where Walker sat.

"A woman I knew, a Speciali Flight Officer. She was in a Special Recon Battalion in the Indian Air Army." He paused and frowned. "'Knew' might be the wrong word. A woman I'd heard of."

"Did this woman have a name?"

"Why? She's probably been promoted to F/L by now," he told Nichol, using the acronym for 'flight lieutenant'.

"Well, does she?"

Walker didn't like being teased. "Forget I mentioned it. Who's that on television?"

"Who do you think? The Ministry." Nichol suddenly checked his beeper, which was vibrating on his belt. "Excuse me, sir."

_I wonder when he's going to be promoted. _Walker turned to the television and watched the broadcast of Duke Karl Friedrich von Hohenzollern, a big shot in the international body known as the Romefeller Foundation and the Alliance Defense Minister, addressing the legislature, the United Earth Sphere Assembly. The Assembly was probably the single most powerful body in Earth Sphere, at least legitimately, and it still dominated Alliance politics. Of course, the Assembly was a huge body. More than a few of them were also members of the Foundation, a secretive group Walker knew more about in concept than in reality.

The Duke was discussing the ramifications of diverting further mobile suit assets—primarily, units from the interdependent corp of the Mobile Suit Troops that were stationed as reserves throughout Eurasia—to space. Aside from the Gundam attacks, Earth as a whole remained peaceful, compared to the colonies, which were in a state of military rule and outright rebellion. The congress in Tokyo was probably going to last to a few more weeks, only to produce more indecision. General Gwinter Septim, commander-in-chief of Alliance Space Forces, was notoriously difficult to deal with.

_Really, this typifies the Alliance's problems. The largest armed force in human history, as well as the most technologically advance, and head can barely agree with itself, much less communicate with the arms and the legs. _Walker sighed. _Every so often, I doubt whether our sense of smug self-superiority is justified, and then the Alliance does something that proves it is. _

Take Nichol, for example: he had made a name for himself in linking the two sides of the coin of Alliance space supremacy: the outer space Pioneer Troops, and the colonial Space Assault troops. Besides the fact that they both used variants of the OZ-06MS 'Leo', the Alliance's combat-proven battle machine, they had virtually nothing in common: they didn't even use the same _color scheme_ on their mobile suits. Pioneer Leos were charged with high-stakes vacuum no-gravity combat that involved distances of thousands of meters, at minimum—shooting down rebel colonial cruisers, frigates, and ballistic missiles, for example. Assault Leos, by contrast, were used for actual boarding operations and all fighting that happened inside a colony—as such, it was closer to conventional urban combat, at particularly claustrophobic distances. Typically, Pioneer Leos escorted the carriers that ferried Assault Leos to docking rings on the outside of a targeted colony.

Some Speciali, including Nichol, served among the Pioneers or Assault Troop for periods of time, though Nichol himself was more of an advisor than a soldier. Walker didn't envy him: unlike the Speciali, who were a tightly-disciplined, homogeneous unit, wherever they served, the whole Alliance military had legendary inter-service rivalries, bordering on hostility. Each branch and even many sub-branches had its own academies and schools, and admirals from the navy actively distrusted generals from the army and air forces. It had _always _been like this—indeed, this inter-service hostility was probably one of the reasons for the success of the Speciali, who were considered a more desirable option than overcoming those rivalries.

_I suppose there's the possibility that if the Alliance ever got its act together, we Speciali would be obsolete. Where would that leave me?_

Probably in the technocratic secret society that was "OZ"—the Order of the Zodiac. After all, people were needed to actually design, manufacture and maintain the weapons of war, whether they were mobile suits or machine guns. That was one of his specialties.

"Flight Lieutenant?"

He turned to see an Alliance junior officer looking at him. "Yes?"

"Call for you, sir. Luxembourg."

_Luxembourg? _He stood up, looking at her. "Who is it?"

"Uh…'The Main Armaments Directorate of the Ministry of Defense'," she replied with uncertainty.

He almost fell over on his cape, running to the private room to take the call. In his rush, he hadn't even asked _who _was calling him from Luxembourg.

_I haven't heard that name in years. _The bureaucratic-sounding name was actually a real thing, or rather, it had been the year Walker was born, AC 176. But that was almost twenty years ago, it had long since died a merciful death.

Taking a deep breath and straightening out his uniform, Walker put the handset to his head. "This is Walker. Who is this, really?"

"_Very good, Flight Lieutenant. Do you recognize my voice?_"

Walker did, immediately. "Of course, your Excellency."


	4. Khushrenada's Secret, II

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 4 **– Khushrenada's Secret, II****

_Findel Airport, Grand Duchy of Luxembourg. _

"You ever feel like you live in one of those things?"

Flight Lieutenant Walker stood in front of the Tupolev passenger liner, one of the most common supersonic transport aircraft used by the Alliance, in royal blue-and-white Speciali livery.

The question was posed by another Speciali officer, a flight officer, stepping down the mobile stairway, who had a tired look about him as he carrier his suitcase. He was speaking of the aircraft.

"I suppose I do," he admitted. He'd been relocated to Nairobi after his convalescence, only to shuttle over to Luxembourg a few days later on urgent business. He might have done well to stay in Corsica in the first place.

The flight officer saluted him and walked towards the airport terminal. Walker turned to the ground crew around the aircraft.

"I have urgent business in Ansembourg, could you guys unload my motorcycle right now?"

"Already on it, Lieutenant."

With all his luggage in a single small saddlebag, Walker took a half-hour long motorcycle ride to Ansembourg, northwest of Luxembourg City. The weather was excellent—a reminder why he took the risk of not wearing a helmet, with the wind rushing past his face. When the occasional Luxembourger waved at him from the side of the country roads, he waved back, wondering if they waved because of his hunter green uniform or because they were unusually friendly.

He came to the central gates in front of the New Castle of Ansembourg, where he was greeted by two Speciali sergeants.

"Flight Lieutenant Oswald Walker, Special Mobile Suit Troops," he said, introducing himself as he stepped off his bike.

"We've been waiting for you, sir. Would you mind waiting here for a few minutes, we'll take care of your bike."

"Sure," he said, removing his goggles. "I just need to get two things."

Unzipping his saddlebag, he took out his cape and his ceremonial saber, which he put on as the motorcycle was pushed away along the walls that completely surrounded the castle. When he finished, he looked back up at the New Castle, in a little bit of awe. The castle was more than six-hundred years old, but he was more interested in what had happened there a few scant decades ago.

In AC 176, coincidentally the year Walker was born, there was a transformation in the Alliance military bureaucracy. The Main Armaments Directorate of the Ministry of Defense had been founded with the Alliance forty years earlier, in AC 133, charged with the task of commissioning, organizing, storing and distributing the materiel used by the largest military force in the human history. It was one of the Alliance's greatest accomplishments, the other being the simultaneous task of keeping that materiel from falling into the hands of those who opposed the Alliance's definition of peace, and it had done so reliably for forty years.

Then, in AC 176, the multiple experiment design bureaus from across Earth Sphere, in employ of the Romefeller Foundation, a major backer of the Alliance, united to produce the original variant of the first mass-production mobile suit, the OZ-06MS 'Leo'. Indeed, the designation 'OZ' was simply the acronym of what unified organization of design bureaus had had decided to call themselves since they had congregated to design an earlier prototype, the OZ-00MS 'Tallgeese'.

Tallgeese, while a phenomenal piece of engineering, was also impractically expensive and incredibly dangerous to its pilot, as the Main Armaments Directorate had correctly pointed out. So it had been left to sit in Corsica, where it had been finished, as a proof-of-concept, where Walker had found it weeks ago.

The Leo, on the other hand, was exactly what the Alliance needed, and could realistically compliment the tens of thousands of main battle tanks, ground-attack aircraft, and self-propelled artillery vehicles that the Alliance already counted on to secure the peace on Earth. The Main Directorate knew it, and OZ knew it. That year at Ansembourg, home to the Romefeller Proving Grounds, with mobile suits replacing the myriad of war machine designs needed by the Alliance, the Main Directorate was dismantled into a combination of number of smaller agencies, the lion's portion going to OZ, which had its headquarters in Luxembourg.

_Bureaucracy, like a life form, must be born, reproduce, and die_, Walker mused. A butler in an elegant suit walked up to the castle gate and opened it slightly, before bowing politely.

"Sir Oswald, forgive me for keeping you waiting."

"That's perfectly fine," he said quickly, raising a hand. "Just 'Flight Lieutenant Walker', actually."

"My apologies, Flight Lieutenant Walker. If you'll follow me, please. You're not carrying your sidearm, are you?"

"No."

"Excellent, sir."

He followed the butler into the dimly lit main hall. _Sir Oswald. So, I was called here by the Romefeller Foundation. _Unlike the Alliance, the Romefeller Foundation regularly conferred titles of nobility upon warriors, particularly their favorites among the Speciali. Walker himself had been made a knight in AC 191, though it wasn't a hereditary title.

"If you'll please wait here, sir," the dignified butler repeated, bowing and walking away.

He stood in the darkness, surrounded by thick curtains over huge windows and ancient marble statues he couldn't really make the detail of, until a thick door to his left noisily opened. He turned, squinting in the darkness, and saluted sharply, striking the heels of his riding boots against each other.

"Your Excellency, Colonel Treize Khushrenada. Flight Lieutenant Oswald Walker, formerly of the Forty-Fourth Special Airborne Division, Middle East Air Army, reporting for duty."

The voice came back supremely confident and in-control, while managing to not sound totally indifferent. "At ease, Flight Lieutenant. You've no need to be so regimented. It appears I've made a mistake—should I call you 'Oswald' or would you prefer 'Walker'?"

"Your Excellency, 'Walker' would be fine, sir."

At the top of the grand staircase, in front of a pair of double doors, Colonel Treize Khushrenada, Commandant of the Special Mobile Suit Troops, scion of the House of Khushrenada and Count of the Romefeller Foundation, smirked a little bit at Walker. Just a _tiny _bit. Stepping down the stairs leisurely, as Walker lowered his right arm, he revealed he was holding a small object in his right hand, a data disk.

"I believe it's been…four years, Walker?" he asked. He stood a good bit taller than Walker, but for all the latter knew, that might have been sheer psychological supremacy.

"Your Excellency, I'm flattered that you'd remember me." A fifteen-year-old Walker, along with a young Zechs Merquise, had been assembled as a unit for a secret operation the fifth point of the J.A.P., or Alliance Protection Zone east of Japan. It was before Zechs began wearing his iconic mask, but was already suspected to be an outstanding pilot.

The zone existed as a set of strategic points in the Pacific Ocean, when the East Asian Military District realized the possibility of a colonial insertion within striking distance of Tokyo, where the Alliance central government was currently located. In four years, the first Gundam would be spotted over the J.A.P., just as the East Asian Military District warned, but before that, there was a mutiny at the fifth point in Japan.

A small terrorist cell had managed to steal one of the new Aries suits, and Treize and Zechs were dispatched personally by first commandant of the Specials, Colonel General Chilias Catalonia. Walker and one of Catalonia's oldest and most trusted veterans, Broden, were assigned as their backup. As it happened, they were both largely unnecessary, when the two lead pilots wiped out the entirety of the cell and rescued the hostages they had taken. The operation was hugely successful, and Walker had been promoted to the rank of knight of the Romefeller Foundation for his small part.

_I doubt his Excellency called me here to wax nostalgia_, Walker thought, as Treize showed him the disk.

"A gift to me, from an Alliance brigadier general who respects you enormously."

**II**

The two men were now inside the New Castle's top-rate computer design workshop, Walker sitting in front of a computer station as advance as any he'd worked with at Corsica.

Treize stood behind him, his eyes planted on the digital schematics visible on one of the large displays mounted on the wall above the fireplace mantle.

"This design came to my attention," Treize began. "Shortly after Operation 'Meteor' began in earnest. In searching for the members of the design team, you were the first man available, and I spoke to you to briefly about it. It's a tragedy that the Gundam's attack on Corsica happened that very day."

Walker nodded, not saying anything, and scrolling through the plans on his own monitor. He was actually panicking—for the first time, he'd realized he hadn't given much thought to the events immediately_ before _he was wounded at Corsica. It took a few seconds of panicked searching to recall the telephone conversation, and even then large gaps of it were still missing.

_"You called for me, your Excellency?"_

_"…could you finish it?"_

_"…" _He had said something, but wasn't sure what.

_"You're certain, Walker?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Then we must acquire Gundanium alloy. The 'next' machine for the new era is necessary." _

_"…"_

Walker hid his anxiety the best he could. Before he were the basic schematics for a new Gundam, to be designed and fabricated by OZ, called 'Epyon', Greek for the word 'next'. He cleared his throat softly and flipped through the designs.

"I should tell you, Your Excellency, the design of 'Epyon' was more a proof of concept than anything. When the Gundams first arrived on Earth, I analyzed all data sent to me by Lieutenant Colonel Zechs Merquise, whom I had previously served with. From that data, I came to the conclusion that the designs most closely resembled the prototype mobile suit 'Tallgeese', and that the prototype unit in Corsica could be made operational."

"And this design?" Treize asked, genuinely sounding curious.

"This Gundam was the combined effort of myself and three other engineers at Corsica, all of whom I knew from the Speciali. On the assumption of designing our own Gundam, we considered the advantages it would allow—for example, more space for internal systems and a larger power plant, and agreed upon a high-mobility chassis with variable-geometry, allowing for a mobile armor mode."

He changed the pages a few time. "As you can tell by its appearance, we were enormously influenced by what little we did know about the Gundams. And we only considered it briefly, we hadn't even considered what armaments it would carry."

Treize nodded. "When we spoke, I asked if you could finish it. You told me 'yes', if there were sufficient data." He put both hands behind his back, looking away from the design. "Would that still be possible?"

_So that's what I told His Excellency. _He thought about it for a split-second, hesitating. "Yes," he said finally. "I believe so, Your Excellency. With sufficient observational data from the Gundams to account for a high-powered mobile suit made of Gundanium, and performance data from Tallgeese, demonstrating the stresses put on a pilot and the effectiveness of our current technology, Epyon's design could be finalized and then, ultimately, built. Once Tallgeese has been restored, of course."

Treize nodded and walked away from the desk, looking at the designs again, this time on a screen behind Walker. "Flight Lieutenant Walker."

Walker snapped out of the chair at attention. "Yes, sir."

"You are _non assegnatti_ since the Battle of Corsica, haven't you?"

"That's correct, Your Excellency."

"You're the only one of the four engineers who proposed Epyon who's still with us. I'd like you remain here, for the time being, and continue working on this design. Tallgeese _is_ operational, thanks to your data brought to us by Bonaparte."

"It is?" Walker was shocked. The thought of that museum piece flying and fighting, this soon, was shocking.

"Indeed it is. A comrade of yours, Otto Richter, saw to that."

_Of course, Otto_.

Treize continued. "All data will be forwarded to you, and anything you need made available. Our Order will be very industrious in the coming days, and warriors like yourself will be called to the struggle. In the meantime, however, I want you to work on this design as much as you possibly can, as a personal favor to me."

_Astonishing! _"If that's the case, Your Excellency, I'll absolutely accept this task."

Treize regarded him with a smile—only a few people could 'regard' someone with a smile, but Treize Khushrenada was one of them—and he unintentionally beamed back. "Good," he told him. "The Foundation has allowed me to confer upon you the rank of Baronet, for your valor in defense of the Corsica Works and Brigadier General Bonaparte, which I'm pleased to do, along with this _exclusive_ assignment."

Walker understood exactly what Treize meant with the emphasis on the word "exclusive." The isolated New Castle in Ansembourg, practically Treize's own fiefdom, the data from the Gundams and Tallgeese, the designs that had been submitted—this was all information Treize intended to keep his and his alone. Walker was happy to comply.

"Very good, Walker. Lady Une will make the arrangements. From this point onward, this is _your _project. Take pride in that fact."

_I don't think that's exactly true. _"Yes, Your Excellency, but if I may ask one question."

He nodded wordlessly.

"What is Operation 'Meteor'?"

**III**

The next week was very, very unusual.

Walker literally lived inside the New Castle. They were the most comfortable quarters he'd ever lived in, good food, good wine—since his liver was his, it was the one thing he allowed himself to still do, though only at dinner—beds more expensive than the apartment he'd grown up in.

He answered to no one, not the Alliance, not the Romefeller Foundation, not God, but Treize Khushrenada and his proxy, Lieutenant Colonel Une. As with Treize, Walker had met her before, though they were not personally acquainted—he'd be lying if he didn't say he found "Lady" Une a bit terrifying, including what he perceived as a willingness to treat the lives of Speciali as something to be thrown away whenever convenient. In truth, any ranking officer probably acknowledged that fact, but to be as blasé about it as Une was a terror for a field officer like Walker.

Additionally, Une wasn't at all impressed by his work. Une knew that he was _not _a genius or naturally brilliant, and that Epyon was a collaborative effort. Progress was exceedingly slow; no one expected Walker to finish designing a Gundam from the ground up, but when Walker had to candidly explain all the obstacles he and any future designers would encounter—developing a sufficiently powerful ultracompact fusion reactor that could fit inside it, coming up with countermeasures to protect it from the incredibly powerful beam weaponry one of the Gundams was known to carry, designing complex variable geometry that wouldn't break down in combat—were all things Une expected to be _solved _and soon. He used his familiarity with the next-generation extraterrestrial combat model, the OZ-12SMS 'Taurus'—to fill in some of the gaps. The Taurus line had been in development for years, and the appearance of the Gundams had resulted in the Alliance rushing it to the final proofing phase, when Speciali pilots with space combat training would operate them alongside the Alliance Space Forces, until the latter adopted it formally. The Taurus was truly revolutionary, something Walker appreciated as an engineer—it would actually have powerplant output, and beam weaponry, comparable to a Gundam in many respects.

And then there was the issue of weaponry: Walker was a mobile suit engineer, not a weapons engineer. At least in that regard, Treize seemed disinterested and easily satisfied: Walker had shown him the crude, rushed proposal that he'd come up with when Une told him he had a week to come up with _one weapon _in addition to everything else, and he'd liked it.

_Who'd have thought—a beam emitter directly linked to the powerplant, that would create an arc as long as the Gundam itself. Entirely doable, but not very practical. _Treize liked it, calling it "Pure and elegant," and Une didn't question with Treize, though Walker suspected he knew what _she_ thought of it.

And there was what she said immediately afterwards. "Looks like you got away with it, Walker. Don't expect it to work twice."

Thankfully, he rarely saw either of them. In fact, he barely saw anyone, aside from Treize's butler. He liked to imagine that he was in the same league as the J. R. Oppenheimer, who did his work on the atomic bomb in complete isolation, or A. N. Tupolev, who was forced to work while under arrest, as millions of his countrymen were killed by outside invaders in Great Patriotic War. Except those men were brilliant, and Walker was merely an above-average engineer. After a week of this, Walker realized that those men probably weren't _completely _alone, and that it was starting to take its toll on him.

Then, just as Treize had said, something came up to interrupt him.

He was working in his room at the New Castle, running hundreds of performance simulations based on optimistic reactor outputs. Epyon had the potential to be awesomely powerful close-range fighting machine, _provided _whoever was piloting it could get to their target _and _the powerplant, the vernier thrusters, the power distribution systems and the control interfaces could be developed, all of which were probably beyond his capability. He had large quantities of performance data, but very little actual design information, all of which was from twenty-year-old Tallgeese.

_If I'm lucky, someone will kill that damn Maganac Gundam in the meantime_, he thought as the telephone on his desk rang. He picked it up, expecting it to be Une, who was the only person who ever called him, and he didn't dare make calls himself.

"Yes, Lieutenant Colonel?" he said automatically. He was wrong. "Otto? I was wondering if you'd ever call, it's nice to hear your voice after all those messages. You sound a little…"

He was interrupted. "You did _what_?" He stood up in his room. "Why would you do that? Doesn't anyone listen to a damn thing I say? You could have been killed, you fool!"

Flight Officer Otto Richter, whom Walker had known for three years at least, had taken out Tallgeese—_against _all Walker's very clear instructions. Walker had written them with the consideration for the weak heart that he no longer had, but had calculated that, if made operational again, the pilot might endure up to 15 g in vertical-axis forces. A careless maneuver while in the air, and the pilot, never mind the mobile suit, could be seriously injured.

"I'd say it served you right, but…" The light on the telephone's base flashed. "Hold on, I've got Colonel Une on the line."

He switched the line. "Yes ma'am?"

Une's voice came in less clear than usual. "I'm sorry, ma'am, can you repeat that? You're coming in a little…wait, where are you?"

She was an ocean away, in North America. "New Edwards Air Force Base! Oh, I'm sorry, on an aircraft _to _New Edwards." _When did she leave? She better not expect another update._

As it happened, she didn't. "Twenty-three hundred hours?" He looked at the clock on is computer—22:27. That gave him about thirty minutes to get to aircraft at Luxembourg-Fidel. "I'll need to leave now. But first I need to back everything up to the server."

Une barked on him to do it and he hung up. A few quick keystrokes, and the data began copying itself to the main server underneath the castle. He knocked his fist against the door a few times. "Jeeves, get my bike and bring the car around!"

He leaped back to his desk, and struck the key on the base again. "Otto, sorry about that, but I need to go. It's 'Daybreak'."


	5. A Revolutionary Scenario, I

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 5 **– A Revolutionary Scenario, I****

_40 hours till 'Daybreak', Nairobi Air Base_

Flight Lieutenant Walker entered the ready room at Nairobi, saluting the higher-ranking Alliance mobile suit pilots, commanders in the 73rd and 91st Mobile Suit and 105th Independent Mobile Suit Divisions, joined by their counterparts in the 420th and 333rd Armored Divisions and 403rd and 801st Infantry Divisions and 115th Combat Engineers Brigade.

Speaking was Lieutenant General Sadat, one of the top commanders in the whole East African Military District, an Egyptian with more than twenty years of service in the UESA armed forces. Walker knew him, briefly, from his cooperation with the Middle East Air Army during war games a year earlier.

"Good, you're here, take a seat."

Walker lowered his arm and sat down next the nearest _Speciali_ officer—Flight Lieutenant Lucrezia Noin, whom he recognized immediately but said nothing to—and removed his field cap.

"It's official. The emergency military council will be held in New Edwards AFB, in western North America. As you're aware, since the Gundams first appeared on Earth, Tokyo has declared a state of emergency. Accordingly, with the cooperation of the Specials, this conference will be held under 'Mirage' protocol."

Sadat turned. "Major Krist of the Specials will explain."

Squadron Commander Sebastian Krist—a major in Alliance ranks—had been with the Speciali at least ten years, maybe more. Walker had heard he'd passed up multiple promotions in favor of keeping his own elite company of Leo ground troops, the lead company of the 13th Special Ground Division, in the Western European Military District. Walker wasn't sure if it was the fact that he used a Leo, rather than an Aries, or just the length of his career, but he was well-respected among his Alliance colleagues as well. _It might just be his age, really. _

He was a big, imposing man, with a strong jawline and big, impenetrable aviator sunglasses. He wore the same double-breasted uniform as Noin and Walker, albeit with longer epaulets that reached further up his broad shoulders, befitting his rank. Krist stood at the display controls, switching to a world overlay. "As some of you may know, 'Mirage' protocol has been enacted due to the very high probability of a Gundam attack. Based on our intelligence on the Gundam pilots and colonial radicals, our disinformation campaign should work perfectly."

An Alliance captain raised his hand in the front row. "Major, for those of us who don't know, what is the 'Mirage' protocol?"

Krist nodded. "The 'Mirage' protocol calls for emergency military councils to be supplanted by multiple decoy councils, worldwide, complete with a full mobilization of military forces. In addition to the real council in New Edwards, nineteen other councils will be held in the Americas, Asia, and Africa. We'll be staging conference number nine here, in Nairobi."

Sadat nodded. "Additionally, several of the councils, including the real one at New Edwards, will be disguised through disinformation as so-called 'OZ' councils."

That got a short chuckle from the room's occupants, including the Speciali officers. _A reminder that the Alliance, and the Speciali, have a very different idea of what 'OZ' is than the colonies do._

"Only three councils, those in Shanghai, Havana and Kharkov will be leaked as being potential Alliance war councils. The remainder will be disguised as 'OZ' war councils, and whatever that implies for the Colonists—Romefeller summits, Specials meetings, Knights of Columbus, whatever…"

More laughter in the ready room. Another Alliance major raised his hand with a question. "One thing, then. If the Gundams are more likely to hit an OZ summit than an Alliance War Council, why is New Edwards being disguised as one?"

Sadat nodded. "I'll let Krist field that one. Major?"

Krist changed the display, revealing a strategic map of the New Edwards Air Base. "The fact is, prudence demands we protect New Edwards heavily—I'll remind you, this summit will include Supreme Allied Commander Noventa, C-in-C of Space Troops Septim, C-in-C of the Army Ventei, as well as the top officials of the Defense, Interior and Foreign Ministries—and we can't really disguise that. Our plan is to confound the Gundams with an abundance of targets, and disguise New Edwards as the least likely target. The Shanghai conference, as well the one here in Nairobi and the one in San Francisco will have a military presence to match New Edwards, the better part of an army corps."

"This is starting to get _really _complicated," an Alliance lieutenant sitting next to Walker whispered quietly. He nodded back.

"Here at Nairobi, this will be Operation 'Arabel'," Sadat announced, switching the display back to Nairobi AFB. "'Arabel' will consist of the divisions represented here, led by the Seventy-Third, Ninety-First, and Hundred-Fifth Leo Divisions, holding a perimeter around the main grounds. Now I know this seems more like a glorified drill, but there _is _the possibility of a Gundam attack, so we will remain at battle-ready until the Gundams are confirmed. If a Gundam is confirmed here, we intend to provide a nasty surprise."

Sadat pressed another key, and the display changed, revealing schematic plans: Eurasian-made 9K120 theater ballistic missile and their corresponding launch vehicles.

"Ballistic missiles, six of them from East Africa Headquarters. Half-tonne bunker-penetrating warhead, cruising speed twenty-four hundred meters a second, it'll take them half a minute to reach Nairobi from Lake Navaisha National Park, where we've had them set up. They're accurate to within two meters, but we're not accounting for the sensor-defeating properties of Gundams. We'll be relying on beam-riding guidance from Leo command units."

The display switched to Leo's terrestrial beam rifle, with a modified targeting sensor near the barrel's emitter.

"So between those and our Tragos unit, we should be able to kill that Gundam if it shows up. Very few of us have faced a Gundam and lived—the Specials have some experience with that," Sadat said, looking at Noin and Walker. While Sadat didn't sound the least bit disingenuous, a few Alliance officers at the front gave patronizing chuckles.

Sadat shot them a glance and continued. "As such, you _will _follow their leads. A Gundam comes here, decoy or not, we _will _destroy it. Likely attack points are the major hangars, the main terminal, and the old Presidential Pavilion, so target the Gundams while they make their opening strike."

He checked his wristwatch. "The operation will begin in two days, at Twenty-Hundred Hours. In order to be successfully executed, you will not speak of 'Arabel' to your operational commands, but instead assume the normal escort mission when the summit is announced. The masquerade is officially on. Any further questions?"

Sadat glanced around the room. "Very well then. Good luck in two days, gentlemen." He saluted swiftly, and the officers in attendance stood at attention and saluted back.

"_Dio salvi l'Alleanza!_" he said softly. "God save the Alliance."

"Dio salvi l'Allenza!"

**II**

It wasn't until about an hour later that Walker was able to speak safely with Noin. He found near the main taxiway, standing in the shadow of a large Antonov strategic airlifter capable of transporting six mobile suits simultaneously—while it wasn't the largest airlifter in common use, both the Special Mobile Suit Troops and the Alliance as a whole maintained dozens of the reliable, flexible aircraft.

"Walker!" Noin called out, handing a manifest she'd been reading to a junior officer, who saluted. Indeed, there were no Alliance officers nearby, intentionally. "Over here."

Walker extended his motorcycles kickstand and killed the engine. "Lucrezia Noin, it's been a long time."

"Definitely."

He raised his goggles and gave an apologetic expression. "I'm…I'm sorry I wasn't there for what happened at Lake Victoria. Not to you personally, but…"

Noin smiled. "I know, Lake Victoria was our home, all our home, when we were kids," she said, glancing around as the Speciali ground crew oversaw the loading of Nairobi's three operational Aries mobile suits into the Airlifter. "Besides, it wasn't your fault. I heard you were in a coma when it happened."

He nodded, waking up to her and watching the technicians load the first of the three Aries. "Is it safe to talk out here?"

Noin glanced in the direction of the main terminal to the southeast, then gestured towards the open rear cargo doors. The two took a spot just inside the aircraft, as the first Aries was slowly loaded in.

"So Zechs couldn't make it," Walker asked.

Noin shook his head. "He's still at the staging area, at Lake Victoria. It's thirty minutes away by aircraft, if that."

"Didn't think it was worth his time?" Walker asked, smiling.

"Ever since Otto's been obsessed with that mobile suit, Tallgeese—which I blame you for, incidentally—he's been forced to manage by himself." She smiled. "With my help, anyway."

_I'm sure you mind. _"It'll be good to see him again. I would have liked to either, but I was detained in Luxembourg."

Noin raised an eyebrow. "Doing what?"

Walker looked back at her, leaning over the railing facing the main cargo hold. _Would you believe me if I said 'designing a Gundam'? Well, that's not entirely true either. _"Oh, just…design work for the brass. You know me, I like to make all my superiors happy, not just one."

"That _is _one of the things that made us different, isn't it?" Noin asked, looking down and chuckling softly. "Congratulations on the promotion, by the way."

"Thank you."

"You know, Zechs took what happened to you pretty hard. He didn't show it, but…he did, I think."

"That means a lot to me," he responded. Oddly, he felt like he didn't believe her.

"I'm sure he'd be happy to see you. He could really use your help. He's got something in mind for after 'Daybreak'."

Walker looked at her, raising an eyebrow.

"For the Sanc Kingdom."

"Of course," Walker said, standing up and crossings his arms. "I should have known better." He should have—he was already aware of Zechs Merquise's true identity, after all, he'd been around back when it wasn't much of a secret that the man who would become the Lightning Baron was the scion of deposed House of Peacecraft, which had ruled over the Danish Sanc Kingdom. The kingdom had been subject to an Alliance military intervention when Walker was about six years old.

His enormous admiration of the Lightning Baron aside, he didn't really care about the kingdom—something that separated him from the sons of Sanc, like Zechs and Otto. Their advocacy of total pacifism aside, it was well-known the Peacecrafts were no less corrupt than any of the other numerous European monarchies that were part of the Romefeller Foundation. Had it been an internal revolution, Walker would have wished them good riddance. But since it was an act of the Alliance parliament, it wasn't as easy to justify.

"If I can be any help, it'd be an honor," he told her. "Of course, who knows where any of us will be after 'Daybreak'."

Noin nodded. "Agreed. We're living in dangerous times, aren't we? Did you hear about Deputy Foreign Minister Darlian?"

He _had_ heard that there was some talk of 'removing' Darlian from the picture—from the Romefeller Foundation and their colleagues throughout the Foreign Ministry. "I can't say that I'm surprised. I'm not condoning it, but if Darlian had his way, we'd be left to defend ourselves golf clubs and baseball bats. Real effective for when the colonials decide to drop one of those billion-tonne _Earth-built colonies _on our faces. No wonder the disarmament movement hasn't made any ground, with morons like him leading it."

"That's dark, Walker. Real dark," Noin teased him.

"I think it must have been my near-death experience," he admitted, sighing deeply, as the first Aries was bound in place inside the cargo hold. "Apparently, it's made me more cynical."

He turned to her, standing at attention. "When should I report to the staging area?"

"Give it a day. Leave right before dawn, you won't be missed so long as you don't attract attention." She clicked her heels together. "Good luck, Flight Lieutenant Walker."

He clicked his own heels. "And to you, Flight Lieutenant Noin," he responded, before turning to climb out of the cargo hold.

**III**

Returning back to the main terminal, he'd realized something he'd forgotten: he wasn't really 'friends' with Noin in the strictest sense. They'd been rivals during their days as cadets in the academy, a competition Noin had thoroughly won, coming in second in their class, directly behind Zechs. And there was the fact that Noin was a romantic—and that romanticism had kind of annoyed Walker, on the most basic level. He didn't think it was a very good quality in a soldier, and she hadn't always had it. Walker remembered that, at fifteen or so, she had been as hard-nosed as him, if not substantially more so.

_Soft might be the wrong word for Noin_, he thought on the motorcycle ride back. _Definitely a romantic though_. Whereas Walker thought the defining quality of being a soldier, and even more so an officer, was the ability to make difficult, painful, even sickening sacrifice when your judgment called for it—and for your judgment to proven right in the end—Noin defined it in the beauty of the struggle or in the concepts themselves. It was hardly a mindset limited to Noin, of course. Treize Khushrenada had similar notions, Walker reckoned, but Treize had a certain wisdom Noin, or for that matter, Walker, lacked. And even Walker was probably guilty of that romanticism more than once.

_"Colonel Zechs, please take Tallgeese from here. At this rate, the Gundams…"_

In that conversation at Corsica, in front of the Tallgeese prototype he'd discovered, Zechs cut him off. _"Counting on dying, Walker?" _He sounded genuinely remorseful, though he seemed like he was trying to hide it.

_"I've lived by the advice you taught me, to fight for the soldiers of the future. Ad I've lived by that advice."_

_"You're a brave soldier, Walker. How many Gundams do you expect?"_

_"I expect the maximum, as you taught me to do." _

_"There are four. One isn't headed here. I'm sorry, Walker, that's all I know."_

_He smiled an honest smile. "I'd be grateful if we eliminated one, Lieutenant Colonel." _

He found himself smiling again, just at the thought of that melancholy conversation. _I'm confident enough in my sexuality and emotions to admit that my mild dislike of Noin might stem from jealousy of her relationship with Zechs_, he told himself, holding back a chuckle. The last thing he wanted was to swallow some African insect while he laughed. _I mean, I know I'm envious of the time she spends with him now, but I don't think I'm jealous of her romantically. Or of him, for that matter. _

He finally came up to the terminal building, kicking down the kickstand and setting his bike near the entrance. There was one thing he had that Noin didn't—Noin might have been the better pilot, indeed, he was almost completely certain she was the better pilot, but Walker, not Noin, had been taught by Zechs. Indeed, when they were classmates, Zechs was as much a teacher to him as his actual instructors in some respects, particularly battlefield tactics and fighting style.

_It's what I got for not being a natural-born mobile suit pilot. I was the first student of the Lightning Baron, Zechs Merquise. _Noin could fly, and fight, circles around him, but she couldn't take that away no matter how good she was, and he held onto that fact.

He pulled up his goggles and brushed some dirt visible on the folded-down white lapel of his double-breasted hunter green uniform away. As he brushed himself off, he found himself staring at bicycle rack next to the terminal entrance. Parked on the other side, about two and a half meters from his motorcycle, was a Japanese superbike. The _same _Japanese superbike, a Suzuki Hayabusa, in the same solid black as the one he'd seen the last time he was at Nairobi.

_No way there are two black Hayabusa bikes in Nairobi alone. _He stared at the superbike, as if enraptured by the mystery it presented to him, as he slowly opened the glass doors and walked through.

"Flight Lieutenant," a deeper voice announced at him, diverting his attention finally. He snapped to and saluted the squadron commander walking down the hallway towards him.

Krist smirked a little and saluted him back, sunglasses flashing in the dim neon light. "You look like someone with something on his mind."

"You'd be correct, sir," he said, lowering his arm.

"I'm going to the mess hall, why don't you join me?" Krist asked him. It didn't really sound like a question so much as a command, but not quite like an order.

"I'd be happy to, sir."

"Everyone's on edge," Krist told him. "Nothing worse than a decoy operation, except a decoy operation that has the possibility of escalating into a large-scale battle…"

"…depending on circumstances beyond your control," Walker said, finishing for him, as they both entered the mess hall.

Krist glanced at his watch. "Speaking of beyond your control, you busy tonight, Flight Lieutenant?"

"No…sir?"

He lowered his voice—not much, just a little bit—and leaned towards him. "Me and some of the boys in dark green were thinking about sneaking out tonight, around one or so, get something decent to drink. I think you should join us, do you some good."

Krist was referring to the other Speciali—at night, their uniforms might have well have been black. "Tonight sir?" he repeated, carefully.

"That's an order, Walker." Krist stared at him over the rims of his dark aviator sunglasses and walked towards the door, smacking an Alliance captain over the shoulder in a jovial fashion along the way.

_I'm pretty certain Krist doesn't care about the joy of my company, so I'll take that as a clandestine order_, Walker thought, trying to sound clever in his own hand, if nowhere else. Around him, lunch had come to an early close, but General Sadat had ordered a day of R&R for the soldiers and officers—at least, the ones in the regular Alliance Army and Air Forces—in preparation for Operation 'Arabel'.

On the LED television mounted on the wall, coverage on the upcoming Alliance War Council—rather sparse coverage, given the secrecy—was nonstop. The Alliance officers were antsy, talking politics and speculating the same way the newscasters were being forced to as to the nature of the upcoming summit.

"You want to do right by the Alliance, you have Noventa, Ventei, and Darlian tender their resignations _yesterday_," an Irish Alliance Army Mobile Suit Troops lieutenant said. "A fuckin' lot of good total disarmament does us when the colonies are dropping Gundams left and right to kill all of us."

"What a load of bullocks. For starters, know the difference between 'all of us', and OZ," his English counterpart, a captain, countered.

The Irish officer rolled his eyes, when an Indian lieutenant leaned towards him, pointing a finger. "Bull_shit_. What exactly is 'OZ'? The Foundation? The Specials? And then why the hell they hitting twice as many _Alliance _targets as either of those?"

"Hear, hear," another Irishman said, as some of the other officers murmured in agreement.

A Kenyan woman, a senior sergeant with her hair pulled back in disciplined braids, leaned across the table. "Look at all the evidence, one of two things must be true: either the Gundams are indiscriminate in their targets, or they're out of their damn minds to begin with. Maybe both."

Having poured himself a fountain drink, Walker sat down at the end of the table, opposite the debating Alliance officers, slurping it through the straw. As the debate raged on, he turned in the direction of laughter rather than pessimistic conjecture, and a group of Alliance officers sitting around the adjacent table.

"Here's to the best goddamn pilot in the East African District," an American pilot cried out, raising his plastic glass to a comrade. "The Black Knight of the 105th Independent!"

Between one American and another, a young, slender Kenyan second lieutenant sat on a cheap plastic chair, three medals pinned to his drab olive uniform including the Alliance Cross of Merit. He laughed at one of the Americans, finishing his fountain drink just as a Speciali Pilot Officer passed his chair and leaned in, and the two exchanged a rather abrupt kiss. The Japanese Speciali, a young woman with a short bob haircut that was longer in the sides than the back, sat down on the Kenya's lap and slung her arms around his shoulders, looking at him amusingly.

The Kenyan turned back to his male companions. "You know, I hate that nickname, I really do."

"Fine, fine," the American responded. "Here's to the best in the One-Oh-Fifth, Second Lieutenant Ali Kijana Mazuri!"

"Hear, hear!" the Japanese woman chimed in, grinning at the pilot.

Second Lieutenant Mazuri reached to the table and picked up a pair of thin-rimmed circular-framed glasses, putting them on and grinning. "It's one thing to have it painted on the hatch of my Leo, it's another to have it following me around in my personal life."

A European officer sitting opposite of Mazuri laughed. "This is your personal life? You're sitting in an Alliance mess hall, waiting for an order to go get killed by a Gundam, like the rest of us. How is this your personal life, comrade?"

Mazuri grinned back. "Well, I'm surrounded by friends, in the city I grew up in, with a woman I love sitting on my lap. This is about as personal as it gets, Willy."

The Japanese Speciali held Mazuri's chin, frowned at him coyly and they kissed again. Walker was actually being made a little uncomfortable by their intimacy, and turned back to his fountain drink, slurping loudly again. The group dispersed about ten minutes later, just as Walker had reached the bottom of his second fountain soda.

"Hey, you."

Walker frowned, looking over his shoulder. It was the Japanese Speciali, separated from her Alliance friends, standing with her hands on her hips. She circled around the table and sat down on the opposite side.

"That's your Armstrong outside, isn't it?"

Walker was about to respond, but closed his mouth and tapped his right index finger against the rank insignia diamonds on his left epaulet three times, before putting his hands together again.

"That's your Armstrong outside, isn't it, _sir_?" the woman repeated, rephrasing the question. She was probably his age, maybe a year younger, but she carried herself in a manner of being older, to the point that Walker was almost convinced she was.

"Yes it is, Pilot Officer…"

"Tsujimoto. Tsujimoto Nabiki."

"Pilot Officer Tsujimoto." He slurped again loudly, since he could. "Why do you ask?"

Before she could respond, he cut her off. "…Because I know that Suzuki Hayabusa isn't yours."

She closed her mouth and shot him a look. "How do you know that, _sir_?"

Had you been standing behind Tsujimoto, one could have seen Walker very briefly peering along the outline of her formfitting wool uniform over her trim frame. "Because I've seen the rider, and if you'll forgive me for saying so, you're not exactly built like she is. No offense."

Tsujimoto scoffed at him as he pushed aside his plastic cup, matching her stare with her own. He spoke again. "Also, the rider of that motorcycle hasn't been a pilot officer in about three years."

She kept staring at him, her eyes narrowing, until a smile crept across her face. "Not bad, Flight Lieutenant Walker," she told him. "You're observant."

"I would hope so," he said, standing up. "Good day, Pilot Officer."

"I'll give Flight Lieutenant Ogasawara your regards," she said at his back.

He stopped briefly. Tsujimoto's comment had confirmed suspicions he'd had since before he'd left Nairobi the first time, and he nodded slightly before walking off. "Please do."

**IV**

It was fifteen past midnight when Walker was finally able to sneak off on his motorcycle out of Nairobi AFB. He wasn't sure if it was really necessary to be so sneaky, but in any case, he waited for the guards to change shifts at the northwest entrance before driving out and flashing his military ID at the new guards, who waved him through. Turning the corner, he got onto Outer Ring Road. He had forty-five minutes to find the rendezvous point Krist had hinted at earlier that day. It took him almost that whole length of time, driving in circles through the outskirts of Nairobi until he spotted the lights of a Sikorsky cargo helicopter passing overhead. He followed it until it set down in a soccer field. Sure enough, in a nearby building, he spotted several Speciali, including Squadron Commander Krist, sitting around a table covered with empty beer bottles. Tsujimoto was not among them.

"Walker!" Krist yelled, over the helicopter's rotors slowing down. "Took you long enough."

"You were a little vague, sir," Walker responded, pulling up his goggles and pushing his motorcycle up past to building, to the helicopter.

"We would have gotten you in the morning if not tonight," he told him. "You really need that bike?"

"All my tools are on it, sir. I'm an engineer after all."

"Point taken. Wouldn't be the only bike we're carrying, apparently. Come on."

As he helped load his bike into the Sikorsky's large, open cabin, Walker watched the other Speciali board—Krist himself, a few flight officers including one he recognized, Muhammad Mueller, a young pilot he'd met back in his days in the Middle East Air Army, though he did not know him personally. Mueller was followed by Pilot Officer Levinsky, a Belarusian cadet that Walker only knew because he was the youngest Speciali at Nairobi.

Walker was more interested in the person following Levinsky—clad entirely in a shiny, solid-black body-hugging motorcycle leathers, zipped in the front, with a white full face helmet and black visor. She was taller as Walker, who stood almost 178 centimeter tall, but her boots did have heels, and was slender and very well-endowed, with thick, black hair that reached down past her thighs.

In one hand, she carried a duffle bag, and in the other, a small, gas-operated machine pistol. She boarded the helicopter last, after throwing her duffle bag into the front half of the helicopter and kicking the motorcycle that had been quickly bound in place in the back of the cabin, against Walker's smaller ride. Tossing him the machine pistol, she sat down next to her motorcycle, strapping herself into the only unfolded seat in the back of the cabin, opposite of Walker.

Having caught the weapon, Walker slung it over his back and put a finger to his goggles and nodded at her, as she nodded back at him. She said nothing as the helicopter lifted up, Krist shouting orders in the front half of the cabin, his back to Walker's. With nothing to do as they flew out of Nairobi, past Alliance searchlights, Walker looked at the weapon he'd been handed.

"German, nice," he yelled in the wind. _They do make the best machine pistols, don't they? _"What is this, four-point-six by thirty millimeter?"

She nodded at him, as he unfolded the forward grip with a loud, stiff snap and looked down the sights, aiming out the open door. "Ambidextrous selector, cool. I need to get one of these as a cockpit PDW, if I ever get shot down again without ending in the hospital."

"Forty minutes to Lake Victoria, gentlemen," the pilot announced over the speakers.

Walker popped out the extending stock then popped it back in, spinning it around and handing it back to her, stock first. She raised a gloved hand at him and gestured that he could keep it.

"Thanks," he said, slinging it over his back again.

They sat in silence as the helicopter ventured through the darkness, until Krist reached behind him and shook a stack of printouts in his hand in his face. "Walker, take a look at these. They're our aviation fuel assets for our airborne divisions for 'Daybreak'."

Walker nodded and grabbed the stack of papers, as they flapped in the wind, holding it up to the cabin light. Among mobile suits, the OZ-07AMS 'Aries' was unique, in that it had both an ultracompact fusion reactor, fueled by deuterium, and turbofan jet turbines, fueled by aviation-grade petroleum, making it a true hybrid of jet aircraft and mobile suit. Since most propulsion came from the turbofans, the Aries' reactor actually produced excess power not used outside ground combat, which could actually be diverted to beam weapons or the afterburners. Beam weapons were rarely used by Aries, though, since they lacked the volume of fire rapid-fire chain rifles and Vulcan cannons could supply, making them useless in air combat.

"These are our fuel reserves at Lake Victoria?"

"Yeah, that damn Gundam blew up a lot of the existing infrastructure during that last attack—some of its been restored, but we're expecting half of what we would normally have to work with."

Walker nodded. "Speaking of which, Squadron Commander, I was meaning to ask…do you think it's wise having this many Speciali leave in one night? We might be tipping off the Alliance, come morning."

"Not many options, really. We've still got almost a fourth of our officers in Nairobi AFB for the morning, and they'll have to flee to Lake Victoria once they get a chance. Lieutenant Ogasawara drafted that plan, hopefully it'll work. Eh Emi?"

Reaching over, Flight Lieutenant Ogasawara yanked off her motorcycle helmet, shaking her thick black bangs free and letting her hair blow in the wind. She had dark skin and piercing brown-red eyes, with long eyelashes, and gave Walker a cunning smile.

"By Zero-Seven-Hundred Hours, Sadat'll receive orders to send his Speciali out on combat air patrol in anticipation of the Gundam attack. That'll be their best, and last chance, to get out of Nairobi without arousing suspicion."

Ogasawara set her helmet down on the cabin floor, near the rear tire of her motorcycle, and unzipped her leathers half-way down her chest. She then stretched her long arms and legs, like a cat, while Walker looked at her over the papers he held.

"It'll be the last time the sun rises on the Alliance," she told them, stretching her arms over her heads in the squeaky leather.

She didn't seem to be wearing anything under the top of her leathers, Walker noticed. "A shame they won't appreciate it," he responded.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Authors notes:<strong>_

_It appears hasn't really added a more convenient way to add these in since I registered on the website some eleven years ago. First, I wanted to thank my one or two readers who are patient enough to keep up with this—it's not a joke to say that going from writing that is intended to have no audience to writing that may have one or two people reading it is literally moving to an "infinitely greater" audience. _

_Second, some explanations—as I've said, this fiction is going to be based in part of what has been released, and translated, of the new _Gundam Wing _manga, _Endless Waltz: The Glory of Losers. _Now, there are some inevitable obstacles—first, the manga is still quite new, and only reaching into a certain length into the series (as of this moment, Treize's coup d'etat against the Alliance hasn't actually been completed yet, though we're near the conclusion of that.) _

_As the author, I'm pretty confident I'm going to pick and choose which elements I wish to use, and which I don't—hence, the regular modifications made to existing chapters (though I'm hoping to cut down on those). For example, Oswald Walker (as he is called) being one of the Specials designers of Gundam Epyon is taken directly from _Losers _as is what will be Vice Minister Darlian's death during Daybreak due to Gundam attack, rather than Une's assassination. Additionally, _Losers _has Septim order the launching of missiles at New Edwards from space, a last-ditch effort to knock out the Gundams, rather than Une arming them while they sit in their silos—also meaning the effort to stop the missiles is a lot less ridiculous than watching Heero crawl around in his bicycle shorts. These are all elements I really do appreciate from _Losers. _On the other hand, in the interest of length, I bet, Zechs and Noin are not shown as participating in Daybreak (now called 'Pleiades', I'll reconcile that) until they arrive at the Sanc Kingdom. _Loser's _going to handle many things better (including not making OZ seem so comically evil and masochistic at times), but there are things I will be keeping from the series. The elephant in the room: the Gundam designs (EW in _Loser, _just like the film). Not sure how I'm going to handle that, aside from calling the Gundams 'the ranged Gundam' and 'the flying Gundam' and 'the Scythe-carrying Gundam' until they get number designations. _

_In the meantime, thanks for your patience—I promise future chapters will be shorter than this one (I like the seven page length or so), as well as less meandering (reconciling the sources was part of that), and that next chapter will have plenty of good, old-fashion, mobile suit action. So far, I've reintroduced two original characters—Bishop and Mazuri, and they will be in the next chapter. Fun side note: Krist is the named Treize Faction commander who briefly fights alongside Heero's Leo around episode 30. Stay tuned! _


	6. A Revolutionary Scenario, II

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 6 **– A Revolutionary Scenario, II****

_Lead the ideas of your time and they will accompany and support you; fall behind them and they drag you along with them; oppose them and they will overwhelm you._

- Napoleon I, Emperor of France

_10 Hours till 'Daybreak', Lake Victoria Academy_

With his feet propped up the control console, Flight Lieutenant Oswald Walker stared at the chrome-plated titanium pennant he held in his bare hand. He spun it around, before feeling its smooth surfaces, its laser-engraved letters, the contours of the emblem of the Alliance Special Mobile Suit Troops.

"What's wrong with your pennant?"

From his seat inside the cockpit of an OZ-07AMS 'Aries', he looked over at a familiar grinning face—Pilot Officer David Ackerson Bishop—peering into his cockpit, in his hunter green uniform. Dac looked at him, with those boyish, wide blue-grey eyes and straight blond hair.

"Nothing, it just occurred to me that, no matter what happens, in a day, it'll be obsolete." He spun the pennant between his thumb and middle finger a few more times.

Dac seemed to take a few seconds to process this, and Walker was about to correct him when he hurriedly answered. "Right, because after 'Daybreak', we'll either have succeeded, and have overthrown the Alliance, or we'll have failed, and all be dead or traitors. Either way, there won't be Special Mobile Suit Troops anymore."

He nodded. "It'll probably be years before I stop calling myself a 'Speciali' in my own head." He tossed the pennant into the air and caught it, before climbing out of his seat. Standing on the floor of the cockpit, he inserted the pennant into the exposed access panel hatch in the middle of the cushions of the seat and turned it, locking it in place. He pulled back on his leather gloves.

"You'll miss it, sir?"

Walker had known both of the Bishop twins for years—it was strange hearing Dac call him 'sir', even though he'd always outranked him. Among close comrades in the Speciali, honorifics were less formal. _Wonder if that'll be the same after this. _"I think so."

Reaching into his pocket, he took out a cloth which he used to wipe his fingerprints off the pennant, then groaned. "God, I've always been so nostalgic, haven't I? It'll be good for me to get rid of this thing and wake up," he mumbled, polishing it a bit before leaving the cockpit.

"Besides, in ten hours, we might all be dead, right?" Dac asked, nervously.

Walker looked at him, smiling confidently. "That's one thing I'm not really worried about."

"Because you've already died? Not the greatest argument, sir."

"No, because I expect that we're going to win. We're the best pilots in the Alliance, even the Alliance itself acknowledges that fact. And if anyone can plan a successful _coup d'état_, it's Treize Khushrenada."

Still smiling, he reached for the nearby toolbox and took out a tablet computer, about the size of a news magazine, and turned it on before holding it in front of his Aries. The camera on the other side reproduced the image, as though he was looking through a picture frame, on the screen that made up almost all of the surface facing him. Through augmented reality, it recognized and identified his machine, a command-version Aries. Though cosmetically identical to other Aries, it was actually equipped with special explosive reactive armor tiles, which sat seamlessly on top of the armored fuselage.

The Aries, technically identified as the OZ-07AMS 'Aries' mobile suit, was the primary choice of not just the Alliance Special Mobile Suit Troops, but also the Alliance Air Force's Mobile Suit Troops, which existed in parallel to terrestrial Mobile Suit Troops in the Alliance Navy and Alliance Army. Variants of the OZ-06MS 'Leo' might have been the most common mobile suits in Earth Sphere, but the Aries was a comfortable second, with Aries battalions and divisions deployed in every military district on the planet. That was an impressive feat if one knew, as Walker knew, that Aries had only been put into production for the last four years, following its development by the late Seis Clark's design bureau. The Leo was five times as old.

Warfare didn't play favorites: the Aries earned its prestige because it did almost every single thing the Alliance military, including the Speciali, needed it to do, and it did it the best overall. It was powered by six purpose-designed afterburning turbofan jet engines, from Aviadvigatel, Shenyang Aircraft Corporation, Pratt & Whitney and a handful of other OZ contractors. But to be a true mobile suit, and not a human-shaped aircraft, the Aries had to have a ultracompact fusion reactor powered by deuterium and tritium, just like the Leo and every other mobile suit built. Clean, safe, and powerful: enough to efficiently power the small, weaker fusion rocket engines carried in the Aries' wing roots, along with the servomotors for limbs, avionics and high-altitude life support. On those fusion rocket engines alone could let an Aries slowly fly for distances comparable to a strategic airlifter. Combined with its turbofans, an Aries could fly circles around modern jet aircraft, even if they couldn't match the pure acceleration of supersonic aircraft.

Supersonic aircraft didn't carry ninety-millimeter chain rifles, or air-dropped torpedoes and bunker busters either; in the quantities an Aries could. The Aries could sustain flight longer than any mobile suit, even the Gundams, it seemed. Until the Gundams appeared, an Aries could also outrun any threat it couldn't shoot down. If a pilot wasn't in the business of running, like the Speciali weren't supposed to be, they could fight, awkwardly, on the ground, where their force-projection was three times better than a Leo with a slow-firing, less-accurate dober gun.

Comparatively, the single weakness of the Aries compared to other widely-used mobile suits was its durability: compared to the Leo, Aries could carry a wider variety of weapons and more of them at once. While more awkward on the ground, it was capable of prolonged, dedicated flight, and even when compared to a Leo mounting a special one-use vernier thruster pack, it was still much more maneuverable.

The one thing the Leo had on it was armor. The Leo could carry a small shield treated in anti-beam coating, which was useless of the Aries' larger profile and hardly perfect on a Leo. The better solution was to up-armor the Aries, which was difficult since it compromised its aerodynamic qualities. ERA was one good solution—it involved a slab of explosive material sandwiched between two heavy plates of armor. When penetrated, the material exploded, forcing the armor plates apart against the penetrator, disrupting its dynamics and forcing it to go through a greater path-length to penetrate the conventional titanium alloy underneath it.

ERA had been around for centuries—as an engineer, Walker had heard it had first appeared in the military of the ancient Soviet Union, a country that was where the Union of Eurasian Republics was now, more than two hundred years earlier, and that it had been adopted in the ancient militaries of Europe and North America shortly afterwards. It was still expensive, especially when it had to be replaced, and to maintain the same performance, the Aries had to be updated with newer, more expensive PS-60A2 turbofans from Aviadvigatel. The modifications were reserved for unit commanders and particularly decorated pilots in the Speciali—they were practically unheard of in the Alliance, whose airborne divisions used the original armor layout.

The tablet correctly identified all these modifications and highlighted them on the screen. Sighing, he tapped a few keys, bringing up a list of different armaments for the Aries—beam rifles, missile pods, rocket pods, and the most common, the chain rifle.

The ninety-millimeter chain rifle, the most common weapon used by Aries mobile suits, was treated as a powerful, more precise version of the 105 mm autocannon, the most common weapon used on the Leo. Unlike the 105 mm autocannon, which simply fired at about two-hundred rounds a minute until it either expended its internal magazine, jammed, or overheated badly enough to warp the barrel or cause an internal ammo explosion, the chain rifle fired smaller caliber APFSDS shells in bursts of five, at a higher velocity. Each shell was strong enough to tear through both walls of the best armored aircraft fuselage ever or punch through the thinner armor surfaces of a main battle tank—a full burst could pass through a tank and destroy everything inside of it, including the ammunition it carried. Reliably, one or two bursts could penetrate an Leo's chassis all the way through, though unless you hit a crucial component—say, the fusion reactor, or the drive systems, or the cockpit—one burst didn't guarantee a kill. Mechanically they were quite different: unlike the 105 mm, the 90 mm was electrically-driven and drew from a belt, and had a flatter trajectory with better penetration.

Being the primary weapon on an Aries, there were actually a number of different autocannons that could be carried, all encased inside the standard chain rifle armored housing with a large high-magnification sensor suite above the barrel. The powerful camera functioned in multiple spectra and made up for the fact that the Aries couldn't sight the weapon on its primary camera. Outside of their housing, the rifles were basically converted versions of externally-powered naval guns that predated the development of mobile suits. There most popular models were the Gryazev-Shipunov 6A92, the Mauser BK-90, the Otoberda 90 mm, the General Dynamics M440, and the Norinco Type 730. The Chinese Type 730 had the highest rate of fire, and thus, the highest potential for damage, but wasn't known for its reliability, and while the Otoberda was the most accurate, it also had the lowest rate of fire and higher maintenance demands.

_Lake Victoria has stockpiles of each of these rifles, thanks to the Aries being a Speciali favorite. No need to make the choice now. _

"Flight Lieutenant!"

Walker immediately hit a key on the tablet, changing the screen, and looked over his shoulder. "Dac, what is it?"

He already knew. Dac was extremely anxious about 'Daybreak', and only having four battles in an Aries under his belt, and usual jumping at the opportunity to get more. It wasn't to say Dac was gung-ho about battles—if anything, he had an intense dislike for the thrill of combat—but he would do anything, include front-line missions, to be promoted to flight officer. Pilot officer was the lowest commissioned rank of the Special Mobile Suit Troops—the Speciali barely had sergeants, mostly attached to honor guard battalions, and none in mobile suit units.

Dac was literally bouncing on the balls of his feet. "I always hate the lull before the battle. Cannot _wait _to get this over with."

"Good luck in your squadron," Walker told him. "Show them what you're made of."

Dac gave an apologetic grunt. "I knew I wasn't good enough to be in the lead squadrons, but hey, I'm glad for the chance to fight at all."

_Really? _Walker nodded, glancing at his watch. It was still early, only 1700 hours. Too early to eat yet."I'll see you at dinner," he told him.

"Are you done here, sir?" Dac asked him, as he put on his gloves.

Walker glanced at his up-armored command Aries—while he'd been told he was going to be a flight leader after this, assuming he wasn't killed, he requested his Aries be restored to the traditional black with yellow highlights livery of the Specali Aries units, rather than the fern green sometimes used by unit commanders, like Lucrezia Noin. Half because he didn't consider himself above his comrades in that manner, and half because he didn't want to make himself such a blatant target.

"Yes, I think I am," he admitted finally, smiling at Dac.

**II**

_Operation 'Daybreak': the operational plan based on a proposed exercise of the same name, drafted by Colonel General Chilias Catalonia, founder of the Special Mobile Suit Troops, for the Supreme Allied Commander. The Daybreak Exercise was intended to address an extreme situation: what it would take to force the capitulation of the Alliance armed forces through conventional military warfare waged against Alliance armies and navies by the nations on Earth. Since the Alliance could never fully disarm all of Earth Sphere, it was understood this could be a possibility. The exercise pointed to certain cracks in the command structure—communications relays, regional headquarters, staging areas—that if targeted simultaneously in large enough numbers could cause a cascade effect._

_'Daybreak' followed 'Twilight', another proposed exercise that sought to examine what it would take for the colonies to cripple the Alliance military through conventional means, or in other words, anything short of a colony-drop, the most obvious option. It stalled because, in every circumstance where the colonies could accumulate sufficient numbers of mobile suits, the one weapon they lacked versus Earth, they had no way to delivery their armies onto the planet in a coherent way. 'Daybreak' was considered a possible event, albeit unlikely. _

Walker had done his share of thinking on the topic. For years, ever since Catalonia's death, something had been underway, something with no face but every soldier and officer in the Speciali was aware of, even if only on a most basic, even subconscious level. It had a name, 'Daybreak', but little else. In the meantime, hundreds of exercises and drills had been conducted, going back to his own first days in a mobile suit.

_The Alliance actually approved of any number of exercises that simulated a particular concern, mutiny. On everything from a local base to an entire military district, the Speciali would be called in to neutralize the mutineers and whatever weapons they had in the field while minimizing damage to the remaining military infrastructure. In fact, it was one of the major responsibilities of the Speciali, a task we performed legitimately, as with the Japanese incident in 'Ninety-One. The fact that the plans could be integrated into one worldwide military operation were concealed by Catalonia's successor, Treize Khushrenada._

Having spent a few hours familiarizing himself with the material, what little there was of it anyway, Walker had left his dark dorm room and gone outside. He'd been meaning to visit since he got back to Lake Victoria. The academy still bore the scars from the Gundam attack, particularly in the fuel reserve tanks that hadn't been rebuilt with. And then there was the west dormitory, one of the Gundam's first attacks.

The burnt-out husk of the building was still standing, mostly. Whether or not it was going to be rebuilt, the top commanders had ordered a small memorial be erected at where the main entrance had been: a simple, elegant slab of light grey concrete, the top of which bore the emblem of the Alliance Speciali, followed by four columns giving the names of every Speciali killed in the Lake Victoria Nightmare, in alphabetical order.

The sight had already become a sort of shrine to Speciali, a holy place for warriors to visit not just their fallen brethren but also to remember those they'd never known but still paid the ultimate price. If they never rebuilt it, the ruins of the west dormitory hall would be hallowed ground to OZ from then onwards.

Walker stood in front of the ruins, looking at the memorial. _If this is to be hallowed ground, when 'Daybreak' is over, they'll have to replace that emblem, won't they? _

One arm hidden underneath his cape, he solemnly approached the ruins, taking a deep breath. In a pane of glass that had somehow survived the Gundam attack in a ruined wall, he could make out his own reflection: a young man, Caucasian, with brown hair, and narrow, harsh brown eyes that made him looking severe even when he really wasn't, close to his eyebrows. He'd cut his hair for the first time since Corsica, he'd been long overdue for one, really. Dac's younger sister had summed in the most flattering manner, years ago: Walker looked very unremarkable, especially for a white man from Windsor, but he was the most coolest, calmest looking white man from Windsor.

_Didn't she tell me I might just be another white guy from Windsor, but I was composed and dignified enough to catch someone's eye? Of course, she always had a thing for me, and she didn't know me that well. Maybe I was just the best looking white guy from Windsor in her age group. _

Walker nearly smiled, until he remembered where he was standing and forced it down. Approaching the mausoleum, he looked at the bundles of flowers and individual wreaths left by earlier Speciali officers and their family members during their visits.

Out of respect, he removed his goggles and folding cap, holding them in his hand as he stared at the memorial. He actually didn't recognize that many names, and the ones he did were graduates who had stayed on to teach at Lake Victoria.

_"Om Pra Ma Ni Da Ni So Ha…" _

Without looking, he immediately recognized the sutra he was hearing as the Vows of Ksitigarbha Bodhisattva, better known as the Buddhist Death Prayer. Background aside, any Speciali pilot with four years of service should have heard enough death prayers of so many faiths to recognize the more popular ones immediately.

The sutra continued, in Japanese, to his side, and after a few minutes of standing somberly, he glanced out of the corner of his eye at the sutra's speaker. He found himself surprised: about two meters away, in front of another section of the memorial, Flight Lieutenant Ogasawara, clapped her gloved hands together and touched her forehead to her thumbs, after finishing the verse of the sutra. She wore the same service uniform, in formation, as he did, with a cape and a saber. Walker turned his eyes back before she opened her own, separating her hands.

Ogasawara took a last look at the memorial and walked away, her arms crossed over her chest. Jaw clenched, Walker remained at the memorial for another minute, before looking over his shoulder. Once he confirmed Ogasawara was nowhere to be seen, he reached into his pocket and produced a military medal: the Order of Abdullah al Saud, named for the founder of the restored Kingdom of Saud. Walker had received awards from a number of countries in the Middle East Military District—Israel, Lebanon, Syria and Palestine—as well as a few from the Alliance, but the Order of Abdullah al Saud was the most prestigious.

He held the green, gold and white medal in his hand, feeling the contours, before wrapping it in its green ribbon and setting it on the memorial.

He took one deep last deep breath. _Time to go_.

**III**

"This isn't going to work."

A few hours later, Walker was standing a monitoring room just off the command and control center at Lake Victoria, underneath the main air traffic control tower, staring at live video footage from a Speciali surveillance aircraft—like its Alliance Air Force-counterpart, it was a high speed, unarmed, remotely-controlled drone with a camera of tremendous power. Walker had seen a drone, with the wingspan of a civilian training aircraft, read the barcode on the back of bottle of soda in the hands of a Palestinian border guard from _kilometers _away on a clear day, back in the Middle East Air Army. It was especially useful thanks to the radar-confounding stealth capabilities Gundanium was imbued with.

Bishop looked at him. "What?"

"No, they're not going to buy it," Walker mumbled, his fingers wrapped around his chin. He turned and ran in the direction of the command and control center.

"What's not going to work?" Bishop asked, his head moving back and forth between the main display and Walker's back.

Barging into the command and control center, Walker pushed his cape over his shoulder and through the weapons scanner at the security checkpoint, where a Speciali senior sergeant with an assault rifle saluted his back.

At the central table, Daybreak's commanding officers at Nairobi—Zechs Merquise, Lucrezia Noin, and Sebastian Krist—were joined by F/L Ogasawara and Flight Officer L. Sernan. Walker's jaw clenched a little tighter upon seeing Ogasawara again, for reasons he wasn't entirely clear on, but he approached the table and saluted smartly.

"Sirs."

"Walker, what's the matter?" Zechs asked, seeing past his trained expression.

"Something the matter?" Noin asked, a little amused. "Maybe Walker's just here to say hello."

Walker didn't look at her. "Then I'll get right to the point. I don't think this is going to work."

"What is it now?" Krist asked, sighing a little tired.

Opposite of him, Zechs stared, his expression indiscernible through his mask. "Give him a chance, Krist. Walker knows what he's talking about."

Walker nodded and approached the central display table, which displayed footage from the same recon aircraft. Next to him, Ogaswara smirked ever so slyly, before looking at his hands. He pointed at the display table, as the footage shifted slightly with the aircraft. "The Gundams. It'll be a matter of minutes before they realize this—New Edwards—isn't an OZ rendezvous."

Krist sighed, apparently unimpressed.

"I know it sounds ridiculous, sir, but it's a very real possibility."

Adjusting his sunglasses, Krist was about to say something when Zechs raised a hand in front of him. "Go on, Lieutenant."

Walker gave a nod and with his index fingers, he zoomed into the lower left quadrant of the display, where three mobile suits carrying their usual 105 mm autocannons were visible, part of the perimeter.

"What do you see here?"

Silence. "Three Leos," Noin said finally. "Why?"

Walker clenched his jaw. "Three olive-drab Leos. Alliance Army colors." With his right hand, he zoomed in a little more, and the Alliance division emblems became visible on the shoulder ball-joint armor. "Even if they don't see the division markings, they'll still see the paintjobs."

Another painful pause. "There aren't enough Leos painted in Speciali blue to spread across the summit and the decoys," Krist admitted, while Walker clenched his hands into fists behind his back, trying to hide his nervousness.

"So there are too many pilots to be _non assegnatti. _So why would the Alliance be guarding an OZ summit?"

"I didn't think this would be a problem when I read the operational briefing," Walker said. "But what we're seeing is what the Gundams are going to be seeing. And it's a problem."

"Is it too late to divert Special units to from the West American district?" Ogasawara asked.

"Maybe not, but how would we get authorization?" Krist mumbled.

As he was about to make a suggestion, Walker was cut off by a radio officer. "Sirs! I've just received word, Colonel Khushrenada and Lieutenant Colonel Une have just arrived at New Edwards AFB!"

Immediately, Ogasawara tapped the screen multiple times, switching between recon craft, until a white hypersonic Speciali shuttle came into view. Treize's personal aircraft.

As Treize and Une disembarked of the mobile stairway, Ogasawara crossed her arms. "That's the sign, Baron. We have to scramble all aircraft."

Zechs nodded. "You're right, Lieutenant. Scramble all pilots, Operation 'Daybreak' has begun."

**IV**

"What the hell! We weren't supposed to leave for another hour!"

Walker ran past Bishop on the tarmac at Lake Victoria Airfield, towards the lead Antonov strategic airlifter—one of the twelve mobile suit carriers engaged in this operation. With each one packed with six Aries mobile suits, a total of seventy two mobile suits were being committed to Operation 'Daybreak'.

Bishop ran after Walker as he ran up the aircraft's rear ramp.

"It's too early!"

"What's wrong Bishop, it's the fifteenth of May, isn't it?" a Speciali P/O yelled at him from the back of a jeep as it passed by, alluding to the scheduled date for operation.

"Hey, go the hell, Disraeli!" Bishop yelled back, catching up with Walker. "What the hell happened?"

"Colonel Treize and Lady Une just arrived at New Edwards, ahead of schedule. The summit must have been moved up. We're deploying."

The color rapidly drained out of Dac's face. "Oh…shit," he told him as he began to hyperventilate.

"It's only an hour difference, Dac."

"_I needed that hour!_"

Instead of resisting the urge, Walker allowed himself to roll his eyes and walked down the ramp to Dac, putting his hands on his shoulders. "Listen to me, Dac. Put aside the operation's success, because I'm guessing you're not thinking of that right now. Remember everything you learned at this academy, everything you've learned as a mobile suit pilot up to this point. And remember, you're going to be up there with me, and seventy of the best pilots born on Earth."

Dac's breathing began to slow down. "You know…modesty…doesn't impress…anyone."

Walker smiled at him, patting his right shoulder. "There you go. That's the failed smartass I know. I don't mind telling you I'm a little afraid too, if it doesn't show."

Dac looked at him incredulously. "You looked more scared coming back from the memorial."

Walker blinked once. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You know, after you ran into that flight lieutenant."

"Seriously, I don't know what you're talking about, David."

"You know, that chesty F/L with the legs," Dac said, raising his hands in exasperation, his voice getting cocky. "The one who's _way _out of your league—you know, Special Recon Battalion, tall, dark skin, athletic, big boobs, _really_ _sexy_."

"You already said 'chesty'," a calm, smooth voice told him from behind.

"I know, I just thought I'd mention it twi…" Dac stopped and let out a shrill screech, so high in pitch that it forced Walker covered his ears and F/L Ogasawara, standing immediately behind him, to wince, before he fell forwards onto the ramp. He whimpered briefly before rising to his feet, clutching his right arm, and stared at Ogasawara's dark eyes.

Walker recognized that expression. Behind the face of someone who'd realized they'd made poor, poor judgement calls that had somehow brought them to a precarious moment in their life, there was the expression of that same person ransacking every nook and cranny of their brain, trying to find a way out. _This is why I prefer to prepare for things. _

Apparently, Dac found his way out. "Smoke bomb!" he shouted in her face, before running down the ramp, still clutching his arm, and in the direction of another airlifter. Walker watched him take off, frowning a little, as Ogsawara walked past him, up the ramp, ceremonial saber in hand.

"Get up here, Walker, you and I are the Lightning Baron's backup."

He adjusted his cap and nodded, running up the ramp into the fuselage. "A…About what Pilot Officer Bishop was saying…"

"Walker."

Upon hearing Zech's voice, Walker spun so hard he almost smacked himself against the fuselage framework. "Colonel Zechs."

Zechs smiled at him tighty. "Hands full, eh Walker? You haven't changed."

"Neither have you sir, he said, doing his best to match his smile.

"It's a shame we didn't have a chance to speak earlier, I got into Lake Victoria later than planned, and I heard you were finalizing preparations."

"I'm glad we're speaking now, sir."

Zechs nodded. "Walker, I'm…"

"Sir, before you say anything, you've never done anything that you should apologize to this flight officer for. Not here, not at Corsica, and not anywhere else we've fought."

Zechs looked at him, maybe even stunned a little bit under his mask. "You know, with Otto in recovery, I can't think of anyone I'd rather have my second in this battle."

"Noin has her own flight?" he asked.

Both men laughed, loud enough to be heard over the sound of the airlifter's turbofans spinning to life. "Right as usual, Walker."

The lights inside their walkway lit up and flashed red twice, signaling the aircraft was preparing to taxi onto the runway, and the rear ramp was lifted up by hydraulics. "That's the sign," Zechs told him. "To the cabin?"

"Actually, I'd like to run some checks our machines."

He nodded. "You haven't changed, Walker."

The Lightning Baron turned to walk down the walkway. Right before the stairway to the top level, he paused, gloved hand on the guardrail. "Thank you, Walker. For everything."

Walker watched the ramp seal close loudly before answering. "I couldn't think of a man of greater honor to present Tallgeese too," he told him, reaching for the com panel against the fuselage wall.

"I hope I never give you a reason question that honor, Walker," Zechs replied, walking up the stairway.

Walker watched ascend before turning to the access panel. "This is the cargo hold. Rear door sealed, you're clear to begin taxing."

_"Attention all troops! This is Squadron Commander Krist!" _a voice announced over the speaker, from a different aircraft. _"Due to our earlier departure, we're modifying our flight path—all aircraft will follow mine. We'll be heading east by southeast over Kilimanjaro directly to the Indian Ocean. From there, we're fly along the coast towards M, only waiting until till the last possible moment to divert to the west towards Nairobi. Our ECM aircraft is still over the Congo, so we're not going to be fooling Alliance radar any time soon—so we better do our best to confuse the shit out of them." _

"Which aircraft is S/C Krist in?" Walker asked a flight engineer.

"He switched with the Lightning Baron. His flight's in the hypersonic Tupolev, with Special Recon."

Walker nodded. "Brave. The Alliance knows Zechs uses one of those. They'll shoot for it first." _That ECM aircraft better rendezvous soon…_

**V**

In the agonizing hour it took for them to reach the Indian Ocean , Walker spent as much time as he could making adjustments to the six Aries inside the airlifter—final performance adjustments for the outside temperature, the humidity and the wind direction in Nairobi County. He was no meteorologist, but he trusted the data coming from command and control back at Lake Victoria, and he knew the adjustments for an Aries by heart. It felt good to be working with his hands, punching in numbers into flight computers, getting the results and turning dials and knobs.

Like all OZ mobile suit cockpits, the main instrumental panel retracted upwards with the four main display screens when the cockpit was open, allowing the pilot to exit. Closing the cockpit closed the external armor hatch, the inner hatch, and lowered the screens and instrumental panel to be directly in front of the pilot. He'd physically pulled open instrument panel between the multi-function displays towards him in order to access the flight computer physically.

Two boots rang loudly against the walkway floor behind, causing him to jump in the cockpit of Noin's Aries, then push the instrument panel closed. Directly in front of him, having been obscured by the instruments, stood Ogasawara Emi on the extended gantry. Her double-breasted uniform coat was unbuttoned and tied in a knot around her waist, covering the tail of the double-breasted jacket. She stood, legs apart, in a shiny black crop top, her white trousers and her black boots, red paint in two lines on either side of her nose, extending down to her cheeks. This style of dress was actually popular among young women in the Specali, at least, more adventurous, confident women, instead of wrapping yourself in multiple layers of wool gabardine by order of military fashion. It was probably social conventions that kept male pilots from doing the same.

_She _is_ really chesty. _"May I ask what the paint's for?" he asked, finally, hands still on the instrument panel. The paint, on the other hand, was very unique.

"Warpaint. And it's not paint, its lipstick."

Walker squinted at her, realizing that the lipstick she was actually wearing on her lips was a different shade than the blood red she'd painted on herself. _Can you still call it warpaint? _Walker nearly asked that, before he managed to stifle the urge. "I see."

She kept glaring at him malevolently. "You seem a little upset."

"I'm supposed to be leading _my _pilots in the Recon Battalion for 'Daybreak'. I _was_, until Krist switched with me, and took Zechs' aircraft."

_I'm sorry about that. _He had to hold that back too, but managed not to. Walker had the feeling Ogasawara didn't care for empty sympathy. "That's that take-charge attitude that Krist is famous for," told her, pulling open the instrument panel again.

He was adjusting the planned output of the mobile suit's fusion reactor, when the instruments were abruptly pushed up again, almost taking his fingers with them. Ogasawara was leaning half-way into the cockpit, long legs propping her against the lower cockpit armored hatch, her hand on the console panel and her face a little farther than ten centimeters from his.

_She actually smells nice. _This first thought shocked him more than a little bit, but it wasn't without reason—how often did a mobile suit pilot actually smell nice? They usually smelled like wool, leather, and sweat. That's what he smelled like, only masked by the low temperature in unheated cargo hold. She smelled different. _Like…expensive soap and cheap perfume. _

"This is about Pilot Officer Bishop, isn't it?" he asked, trying to sound entirely sincere.

She nodded, her eyes narrowing. _She has very pretty eyes. _"Is this going to be a problem, _Sir Oswald_?"

Walker actually had a long explanation in his head, planned for _exactly _this conversation, since Bishop made a damn fool of himself on the taxiway. It occurred to him that this was _not _the time for it. "No," he said.

Propping her arms on the upper armored hatch, Ogasawara leaned forward a little bit, forcing Walker to shrink down into the seat. She was looking down at him, literally. _Clever psychological tactic? _

Walker blinked few times. He didn't know what her plan was, exactly, and he'd never been the confrontational type. He did realize his position meant two things: he could either look up at her, making him look a little bit more cowardly, or he could stare forward like he had been, and at her cleavage in the low-cut crop top.

"Good," she said, finally, moving her right hand off the instrument panel and patting him twice on the face, still staring into his eyes but at least half-smiling at him. Walker didn't believe in the concept of a soul, but if he did, he'd think she was boring into it. She gracefully pulled herself out of the cockpit, picking up her ceremonial saber off the gangway and tossing into an open Aries cockpit two mobile suits down.

"That one's mine. Check it would you? I heard you were hot shit back in the Middle East."

He hurried got out of Noin's Aries, flipping the switches off behind him. "…Sure."

Ogasawara climbed up the gangplank, leaving Walker alone in the cargo hold. He ran over to her Aries, flipping on the cockpit power supply and the main computer. As the BIOS booted up, he leaned back over to the nearby toolbox, picking up the tablet computer and holding it up in front of the Aries.

"Wait a minute…" He frowned and tapped part of the tablet's screen, bringing up weapons data. _Damn it, I knew I forgot something! The damn weapons selection! _

In the cockpit, Zechs sat next to Noin, behind the pilot and copilot, both Speciali Flight Officers.

"ETA to our ECM aircraft?" Zechs asked.

"Looks like four minutes."

"Sir! Nairobi AFB is inquiring about our formation!" the copilot announced.

"Tell them we're conducting maneuvers, a war game over Mombasa," Zechs said quickly.

"Yes sir!"

Zechs leaned on the hilt of his saber, then turned to his left. "Noin, this battle may upset you, later on."

She looked back at him. "I trust you, Zechs. If you say this is an important operation, I believe you," she replied plainly.

Zechs looked at his old comrade, insecurities creeping in. _The Alliance and OZ…It's not as if the world will change if one replaces the other. So why should we even fight? _

**VI**

In the main auditorium at New Edwards Air Force Base, in the Republic of California, Field Marshal Noventa, the Earth Sphere Supreme Allied Commander, had taken the stage. A master of rhetoric, he intended to use that skill to win allies where logic and negotiations hadn't.

"The Alliance was formed to _deter_ the great military powers of the world. But since then, we've plainly because such a military power ourselves. There is no reason for us to continue to devote such enormous wealth and labor to armaments or weapons development."

_Bloody Marxist_, Defense Minister Duke Karl von Hohenzollern thought. He wore his Alliance Army ceremonial uniform, that of a colonel general.

General of Space Forces Septim, commander-in-chief of the Alliance's extraterrestrial military, interrupted calmly but harshly. "Marshal, you're suggesting disarmament."

"That would only be the first step, though," Noventa. "Our ultimate goal _should_ be unilateral demilitarization."

Murmurs spread among the Alliance general officers in the auditorium at Noventa's suggestion. Sitting next to Septim in his forest green parade ground uniform, Army Commander-in-Chief Ventei spoke first. "I must concur."

"Ventei!" Septim said, surprised.

"All of us here have shed blood at one point or another. We did so, unavoidably, to keep the ideal of the Alliance a reality," he said, his voice becoming mournful. "But our goals have changed since then. The time has come to end this epoch of bloodletting."

Septim turned away and sighed. "If only that were an option. But how do we deal _with _reality? We are all aware of the colonies attacking us, as we speak, though mobile suits made of Gundanium from outer space. These suits have left Earth Sphere in a virtual crisis!"

Septim looked down the auditorium. "The Specials have bloodied their noses against them, what do you think?"

In the second row, Treize Khushrenada spoke. "Sirs, like you, we have every reason to believe the Colonies built them with hostile intent."

Septim had counted on Treize to say just that, and nodded.

Sitting next to him, Une whispered. "Your Excellency…"

"What we need now is an actor from the Alliance."

"Sir?"

"Someone to demonstrate the true intentions of the Alliance," he whispered.

Noventa continued. "It's natural for the colonies to feel some animosity towards us. And to rectify this, we must resume dialogue with the colonial leadership!"

Ventei immediately spoke. "I agree completely! It's time for a new chapter in history, through negotiation."

"And such negotiation can't be limited to space. It's time for a reopening of negotiations between the nations of the world as well."

Applause rang out through the auditorium, including from Treize and Une. _I wonder if Noventa knew our agreement with his sentiments in that regard, if he would feel the same…_

Septim looked around, upset. The auditorium was being swept up in Noventa's rhetoric, ignoring the problems at hand. "B-But what about the threat of those mobile suit?" he demanded.

"Once they understand our desire for peace, the colonies will not have a cause for that sort of destruction. We must reopen talks, once we do, I'm sure we can find our way once more."

More clapping. Treize smiled sadly. _Lofty ideals, from the last people who could implement them. He talks of peace achievable without spilling any blood. _He looked at the Supreme Allied Commander. _It seems you've forgotten, dear friends, that in all your arrogance, you were the aggressors in this. And the colonies will match, and surpass, your aggression. _

"Now, Your Excellency?"

"No, wait for the last actors to come into play," he whispered back.

"Next, I'd like to discuss the details of the talks…" Noventa began, before a faint rumbling interrupted him.

Above the underground auditorium, in the main ATC tower, the commanding officer held a radio handset in his hand.

"Antiaircraft batteries are standing by!" an air defense officer announced.

"Open a channel!" the general ordered. "To the unidentified airlifter, this is New Edwards Control! Be advised, if you continue your approach, we will open fire. This is your last warning!"

He glanced at the radar display, as the pip of the closing aircraft grew closer and closer. The general clenched his jaw. "Open fire, with everything we've got! Shoot down that plane!"

Multiple batteries throughout New Edwards AFB opened up, and fast-firing anti-aircraft artillery literally tore the aircraft to pieces even before he could make its improvised landing on the main runway. A fireball crashed into the ground, and the AAA fire for another second into the flaming wreck before quieting.

The general stared from the tower, before his eyes widened and his face went pale. He opened a direct line to the main scree in the auditorium. "Marshal! We're under attack! I repeat, we're under attack!"

"Sir, another airborne contact!"

The screen switched to a high-speed aircraft made of Gundanium, as air raid sirens rang out throughout the base. The delegates of the Alliance war council stared in horror at the screen, as one Gundam, than another, and another appeared on screen.

"Lady Une, all the actors are here. Raise the curtain."

"Yes, sir." Une nodded, and flipped a switch on the satellite transponder she had sitting in her lap, as Treize stood up from his seat.

"We…we need to speak with those pilots! They need to understand our intentions here!" Noventa sputtered at the podium.

The base commander spoke frantically. "That's impossible! Sirs, this is a full-on attack! We're not going to have time to negotiate!"

The entire auditorium shook now from explosions at the surface level. The audience became more nervous.

Treize approached the podium. "Marshal, Gundams are attacking this base."

"Gundams!" Noventa mumbled.

_Outside, the loyal soldiers of the Alliance are fighting, and dying, for you. _"Once again, the rebel will of outer space has brought us here. Shouldn't we fight it?"

"No, no! Something like this must not stand in the way of our peace efforts!"

Treize smiled, closing his eyes and opening his arms. "Then, Marshal, you should go out there with your men and women and kindly tell them as such. Perhaps then we could begin negotiations."

Noventa was positively shaking—a horrific thought had just entered his head. Did Treize wish him dead for this? Had he, Noventa, condemned them, the leaders of the Alliance, to death with this summit? _No. _"Khushrenada, what are you saying?"

Treize bowed. "We have a mobile suit waiting for you, sir. Accept it as a gift."

"What is this, one of your tests?" Noventa demanded angrily.

_I didn't think so, _Treize thought. "If that's the case, then we _must _evacuate. We cannot risk you, or this delegation, being slaughtered while you insist on reaching your peace."

Treize had gotten his point across, and the audience agreed. Noventa capitulated. "Fine, I'll ignore your earlier sarcasm, and you're correct. We serve no one by being killed here. Certainly not the peace effort."

"Then allow me to offer the Special Troops' high-speed shuttle, standing by as we speak."

Noventa removed his hands from the podium and nodded. "I didn't expect another act of generosity from you."

He put his right hand over his chest. "Marshal, I too am a soldier of the United Earth Sphere Alliance."

He nodded. _Bickering costs lives. _"Of course. I gratefully accept."

An Speciali flight officer stood by the exit. "Esteemed delegates, this way please! The shuttle is standing by gate B-12!"

The old men in the audience rose to their feet and formed an orderly, if hurried, procession, except for Septim, who looked left and right. "Where…where is the Deputy Foreign Minister? Where is he? He couldn't have already left…!"

**VII**

Throughout the whole air fleet, the same message rang out a few minutes earlier—Operation 'Daybreak' was go.

Walker literally kicked over the toolbox, scattering tools across the gangway, as the lights in the cargo hold turn red once more, as he threw himself into his mobile suit, the closest one to the exit.

_"'Daybreak' is go, I repeat, 'Daybreak' is go! All pilots report to your mobile suits. Communications blackout has been lifted! IFF will resume immediately!" _the PA system announced.

Behind him, Ogasawara tightened here restraint harnesses one last time and flipped a switch, causing hydraulics to close the armored clamshell hatch over the cockpit of her Aries, the forward display screen locking in place. Inside the cockpit, her systems were fully booted up, as she ran her final checks. "This is Damocles 1-3, all systems green. Ready to launch."

Over her headset, she heard Walker's voice, as plain and level as ever. _"This is Damocles 1-2, likewise. Ready to launch." _

_"Damocles Actual, ready,"_ Zechs announced.

_"Damocles 2-1, ready to go!"_ Noin said, betraying her excitement.

_"Damocles 2-2, all green, ready to launch."_

_"Damocles 2-3, all green, let's rock!" _

In the cockpit, the pilot and copilot had donned their goggles, while the navigator sitting behind them flipped the cargo hold switches. "This is Damocles Mother Ship. Crew chief, status report!"

In the cargo hold, a flight engineer, now wearing an pressurized air mask, clung fuselage wall to maintenance catch. "This is the cargo hold, all pilots accounted for!"

_"Damocles mother ship, opening cargo doors in three…two…one!" _

The rear cargo ramp slowly lowered, just as the strategic airlifter filled the sky around it with decoy flares as countermeasures. All around them, each airlifter repeated the process, literally lighting up the night sky with super hot magnesium flares. Inside the cargo hold, the lights went from red to green.

In his cockpit, Walker braced himself. _"Damocles Mothership, all mobile suits, launch! Give 'em hell, gentlemen!" _

_This is what I signed up for_. "This is Damocles 1-2, launching!" He pulled the mount release, and felt his nine-tonne Aries slide on its cradle until he had cleared the cargo hold and he fell out. His Aries entered free fall, the coastal city of Mombasa appearing on his display screens.

_First operation point, 3'__51'54" by 31'__28'22", Marikani Monitoring Post. ETA 90 seconds. _He adjusted his starboard display, bringing up tracking windows for Damocles Actual and Damocles 1-3 as they fell behind him. He opened the throttle up and set his heading.

"IFF system active. No friendlies in Marikani Base! _Shturmovik_!"

From the far north, a pair of sleek, supersonic Tupolev bombers, intended for anti-shipping operations, cruised in at Mach 4. By design, they were faster than any mobile suit could hope to be—faster than the Aries with its top cruising speed, faster than the Tallgeese at full power, faster than even the Gundams. Indeed, the thing that made the Gundams appear ungodly fast was their incredible acceleration from standing nearly still, thanks to their powerful vernier thrusters. The Aries could actually beat the _top speed _of four of the five Gundams, it was their maneuverability that made them deadly.

_"Wizard One to Damocles Flight, AGMs are armed. Beginning MUDCAP."_

Walker highlighted the two supersonic bombers on his display, understanding the American-inspired jargon that was used among Alliance pilots in the Anglosphere. "Affirmative, Wizard One, it's all yours."

He checked his wristwatch, ignoring the various time displays around him. _We're early. The rest of 'Daybreak' won't be for a few minutes, at least. Funny that the first shot of the greatest coup d'état in human history is going to be fired by some defecting Alliance pilots in a jet bomber, and not a mobile suit. _

The mobile suits passed unmolested over the Marikani Garrison, just as the two bombers fired their air-to-ground missiles, consuming the entire base in a fireball.

"Bravo Zulu, Wizard Flight," Walker announced, congratulating the pilots on a job well done.

_"Roger Damocles 1-2, have fun out there. Wizard Flight RTB."_

"Acknowledged," Walker said, changing the channel.

_"Damocles 1-2, how the hell do you understand those guys again?"_ another voice asked with a Indian accent.

Walker didn't respond, but he frowned. The reason he was doing the talking was because he was one of the few Speciali who understood, and could use, the archaic jargon used by English-speaking pilots in the Alliance Air Forces. Thus, the role of interpreter defaulted to him. There wasn't a lot of purpose in learning aviation jargon more than two-hundred years old, only used occasionally in the Anglosphere and _never _used outside the English-speaking world, even when military communication was in English, so very few people did. Plus, it was tied to the unattractive culture of the Alliance Air Forces, a hangover from an earlier time when military forces worldwide were characterized by equally high quantities of machismo, racism, and undeserved bravado.

_"I wonder about that too. One time, a pissy Alliance A-One-C called me a 'Jane Fonda'. Who the hell is Jane Fonda?" _a woman's voice it didn't recognize asked.

_"Who the hell knows? What did you do to him?"_

_"I broke the bastard's nose over a mess hall table, but that was _after _he called me that." _

_"I hear that. I did the same to the last fucker who called me a 'Haji'." _

There was some laughter over the channel. "Stow the chatter! We're coming onto the target area."

The individual flights began to disperse, filling the early morning sky with the flying black dots. Krist's voice came on the channel again. "All flights, clear to engage. Watch your IFF for friendlies, we've got _decent _comrades worth saving down there."

Walker picked his target, a communications hub and mast that hadn't already been highlighted by another machine's sensors, and squeezed the trigger on his right control stick. "Missile away!"

The same cry rang out throughout the channel, as more than seventy air-to-ground missiles emerged from the missile pods each Aries ferried into combat under its wings. Within a few seconds, all across Nairobi AFB, explosions bloomed, rising into the air, as the whole area was turned into twenty square kilometers of burning hell.

Arming his chain rifle, Walker watched as Damocles 1-3 descended into the inferno, as Alliance AAA began to fire back in response. Engaging afterburners, he dove in after it, chain rifle firing.

"All units, open fire! Don't give them any chance to regroup!" he yelled into his headset, opening up with his chain rifle. A burst of 90 mm fire raked along a Leo in the center of his heads-up display, striking it in the cockpit compartment and the primary camera, as it awkwardly fired back at him. Walker kept firing, putting round after round into the Leo until its reactor exploded, scattering the entire mobile suit into burning dust and a few chunks of exterior armor. Above him, multiple arcs of AAA had converged, forcing him into low altitude just ten meters above the tarmac at Nairobi's taxiways. He immediately, took cover behind a large hangar, sliding out the other side and opening fire on one of the AAA towers. A few shots of APFSDS with tungsten carbide penetrators punched right through the concrete and came out the other side, literally knocking the turret off its tower.

_"Damn it Walker, pay attention!" _

He turned just in time to see a Leo, at his seven o'clock, about three hundred meters downrange, aiming its 370 mm ballistic siege cannon, better known as a "dober gun", at him as his cockpit alarms rang. He immediately took cover behind the hangar just as the Leo fired, flames shooting out its muzzle break and the recoil nearly knocking the mobile suit over. A fraction of a second later, a single high-explosive shell crashed into the hangar near where he'd been hovering, penetrating both steel-reinforced concrete walls before exploding against the ground and leaving a huge crater.

_That's was close! _A single shot from any of numerous models of dober gun were enough to kill an Aries in a single hit—it'd cut through any armor and probably pass through the fusion reactor before exploding, blowing out the entire back of a mobile suit. He'd seen footage of a Gundam being knocked around by hits and even near-misses from dober guns.

Through the holes in the hangar, he watched as the Leo turned and tried to steady its right arm just as a Aries literally pounced on it, knocking it onto its back. The Aries lowered its chain rifle directly over the center torso and fired a long burst, blowing holes into through the armor over the cockpit hatch. The Leo went silent, as the Aries folded its legs back up and hovered off, avoiding fire.

Inside Damocles 1-3, Ogasawara stared at Damocles 1-2 on her port display. "Watch yourself, Damocles 1-2!" she snapped, as an alarm tone rang in her cockpit. Emerging from behind another collapsed hangar were three Alliance main battle tanks, in formation, which opened up on the Aries. A single 125 mm APFSDS struck the side of Walker's port turbofan housing, blowing off the plates of ERA, as intended, and showering the nearby hangar wall with explosion shrapnel that punched small holes in it and shredded the Alliance corpses lying nearby. Ogasawara, dodging the fire, forced her Aries into the adjacent hangar, collapsing the support struts and knocking herself down under the ceiling.

Steadying his Aries on his feet, Walker fired a burst along with a single rocket in the direction of the tank platoon, turning the whole area into a crater and knocking a turret into the air where it exploded from the inside. Damocles 1-3 pulled itself out of the hangar and lifted on its turbofans.

_"Damocles Actual, this is Damocles 1-2, where are you? Zechs, come in!"_

To the northwest, inside the main terminal, Alliance soldiers frantically ran about, trying to make sense of the situation. In the command and control center, a few brave radio operators remainder at their stations, as the display screens flickered every time an explosion rocked the building.

"Sir, a transmission from Fairbanks Base…" a radio operator announced. "There's a revolt there too!"

General Sadat looked at the world map on then primary display—one by one, points indicating major Alliance bases worldwide turned from white to red, indicating some form of attack. Mexico City AFB, Havana Naval Base, Homestead AFB, Casablanca, Asrumara, Beit, Jerusalem, Amman, Beirut, Mogadishu, Zanzibar. Soon, there were more red points than white ones.

"What the hell is going on?" Sadat demanded.

"All units in the field, respond!" a radio operator yelled. A second later, an explosion knocked down a wall in the corner of the room, toppling displays and sending monitors crashing down. Through the gap, a Speciali woman, clutching a sub-machinegun with a barrel-mounted grenade launcher, stepped through, her face masked with tinted goggles and a handkerchief. She was followed by two more Speciali, and then a pair of Alliance army officers, armed with assorted automatic and assault rifles.

Sadat was underneath a trusted lieutenant, who had forced him to the ground underneath a table and drawn his sidearm. The Speciali woman spotted a pair of Alliance noncommissioned officers, covered in shrapnel and about to draw their weapons, and fired a burst in their direction, killing both of them. One Alliance officer, wearing a similar goggles-and-handkerchief getup and with a white kerchief around one sleeve, spotted a captain reaching for machine pistol and shot him three times.

Still underneath his lieutenant, Sadat watched out of the corner of his eye, past the table legs, as the woman walked through the ruined command and control center, her boots crunching loudly on shatter glass panels, loose papers blowing about. It took him a bit to recognize her. _Is that Tsujimoto? _His eyes wandered over to the two Alliance officers, who wore white strips of cloth tied around their left sleeve. _Who are they? _

"Area's clear!" another Speciali announced.

Sadat watched as Tsujimoto Nabiki pulled her grenade launcher forward, allowing an empty 40 mm grenade casing to fall loudly to the floor, rolling away. She walked to the communications console, grabbed a radio operator, bleeding and collapsed over his station, by the collar of his uniform and pulled him to his feet. As he stood, shaking, she opened his holster and took his sidearm, then pushed him in the direction of another Alliance officer.

"He's not a problem," she said, as they forced him down on his knees and kept their guns trained on him. Tsujimoto put on the headset and switched over to the PA system. "Mazuri, we've secured the command and control center."

A voice responded, crackling over the speakers. _"Good work…the hangar doors, and the main gate at the detention level, I repeat…open all remaining hangar doors, and the main gate. In the deten…"_

Tsujimoto scanned the controls until she found two switches, then flipped one after another. On one of the few remaining displays, security camera footage showed dark-uniformed Speciali streaming out of the detention area into base grounds.

At the other end of the base, Ali Mazuri and several other Alliance mobile suit troops flooded into the hangar, just a dozen meters behind the firing lines with the loyalists. He tightened the white kerchief tied around one of his sleeves, then clamored up the ladder to a nearby mobile suit, still loaded in its repair gantry.

"God help us if the IFF codes don't work," he mumbled, throwing himself into the open cockpit and closing the cockpit hatch. The forward display lowered as the systems booted up and he donned his headphones.

"Misift Actual, deploying!" he yelled. "Guys, clear out, I'm firing anti-personnel grenades!"

Below him, at the front of the entrance, the outnumbered revolutionaries fell back from their positions as the other pilots climbed into the remaining mobile suits. At that time, from one of the top hip-mounted grenade launchers, Mazuri fired a single grenade which flew across the hangar before exploding just before the exit, filling the air with deadly carbon shrapnel that tore through the Alliance soldiers, leaving a bloody mess.

Misfit Actual promptly busted through the repair gantry, followed by the other mobile suits, and resolutely stomped towards the exit, crushing corpses along the way.

"It's no mutiny, it's a coup!" Sadat whispered, watching it all on the nearest screen.

The lieutenant finally snapped. "Die, you goddamn Speciali _whore!_" he screamed, drawing his sidearm. With one hand, she fired a burst of fire, with one shot striking the lieutenant in his lung, and he collapsed over. Tsujimoto recognized Sadat, set down the sub-machinegun on the console, and pistol in hand walked over to Sadat, grabbing him by his uniform.

"I got the general!" she yelled, as the whole building shook again. She snatched his sidearm out of his hand, and jammed it in his face. "Now hands over your head!"

Sadat raised his hands over his head. "Why are you doing this? What do you hope to accomplish?" Behind Tsujimoto, he watched on a single monitor as an Alliance Leo approached a defensive line from behind, as though reinforcing it, before opening firing with its 105 mm autocannon on its comrades.

She discharged his firearm into the ceiling twice, causing him to shrink away. "Anarchy in the Earth Sphere!" Tsujimoto screamed in his face, as another explosion ripped through the control room.

_**Author's Notes:**_

_That turned out to be a _lot _longer that I anticipated, though it was a lot of fun to write. That being said, I promised I'd get to the fighting, and I did, so future chapters will hopefully be more in-control in terms of length. _


	7. A Revolutionary Scenario, III

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 7 **– A Revolutionary Scenario, III****

_May 15__th__, AC 195, New Edwards Air Force Base_

In the primary terminal building at New Edwards AFB, the young daughter of the First Deputy Foreign Minister of the UESA, Relena Peacecraft, watched in stunned silence through the wall of windows as New Edwards burned.

_Why do people keep fighting? _Still a child, her viewpoint was necessarily simplistic and black and white. Indeed, she wasn't even aware of the simultaneous mutiny that was tearing apart the Alliance military.

Behind her, First Deputy Foreign Minister Darlian watched the Gundams destroy everything that stood in their way at New Edwards. _For them to appear at a time like this…_

A few hundred meters away, a high-speed trans-orbital shuttle, painted in Alliance Speciali livery, emerged from its armored hangar and carefully taxied towards the runway. Almost immediately, the Maganac Corps mobile suits opened fire in its direction, though they were unable to penetrate the reinforced armored fuselage.

_"Gundam pilots, your attention please, this is the taxing shuttle! We have no intention of fighting!"_

One of the Gundams, armed with close-range weapons standing in the midst of ruined mobile suits, tried to contact his comrades. _"Everyone, please wait! I know that voice!"_

In the passenger cabin of the shuttle, surrounded by the rest of the Alliance war council, Supreme Allied Commander Noventa clasped a handset in his gloved hand, waiting for a response. When he didn't get one, he continued. "This is not OZ! This is Field Marshal Noventa, of the United Earth Sphere Alliance! Please, we only desire peace around Earth!"

The Maganac Corps ceased firing, and the Gundam responded. _"I'm one of the Gundam pilots, and I speak for us all when I say we wish for the same."_

Another Gundam, equipped entirely with ranged weapons and artillery, spoke on the same channel. _"I'm also a Gundam pilot. If you desire peace, why did you assassinate Heero Yuy? Why did you crush the Sanc Kingdom?" _

Across the aisle from Noventa, an American lieutenant general scoffed. "This is absurd! How was our war in the Sanc Kingdom any different from your obliteration of Southern California!"

Noventa ignored his colleague. "That was not our doing!"

Another Gundam pilot spoke over the channel, his aggressive tone offset by his obvious youth. _"The name's Chang Wufei, I want answers! Why did you bastards use biological weapons on the colonies?"_

Noventa sputtered a response. "That's the first I've heard of it! But we're here to discuss our own disarmament, to end the meaningless bloodshed…"

_"You're full of it! You insist on peace but you're not entitled to it!" _Chang Wufei responded.

_"Can you hear me Gundam pilots?" _another voice asked. _"This is Colonel Treize Khushrenada, supreme commander of OZ! While you waste your time with the old men of the Alliance, I'm the one you should be fighting against. Some come get me!" _he said, taunting.

Inside the short-ranged Gundam, the young blonde pilot looked at his computer displays—the latest signal had been triangulated to another location, some distance from the shuttle, which had nearly reached the its runway.

_"Master Quatre, at this rate, the enemy counterattack will…" _

"Marshal Noventa, please take off right away! It's pointless to talk under these circumstances." He voice became hopeful. "We'll meet again, though. I for one welcome your position as the first step towards peace."

The response didn't come until the shuttle was at the end of the runway. "I'm…I'm sorry."

In the different Gundams, a warning tone detected an incoming threat—it would have been nearly invisible on their sensors, had it not been moving at such high speed.

_"It's another Gundam!" _one said. _"The Barton Foundation sent this guy!"_

To the shock of Noventa and the military council, the ranged Gundam turned its heavy arm-carried Gatling in its direction and opened fire on an inbound aircraft. After a brief barrel-roll, the variable geometry aircraft began folding and flexing, transforming into a Gundam itself.

In the main terminal, Relena stared as the new Gundam absorbed the Gatling fire. She could have sworn she'd seen the Gundam before.

The door slammed open at the back of the room. "Deputy Minister Darlian! This is your doing, isn't it?" General of Space Forces Septim demanded, pointing an accusing finger.

"General Septim, don't be ridiculous!" Darlian shouted back. Behind him, the new Gundam opened fire with a beam canon of incredible power, turning the ground near the other Gundam into a crater. He dragged the beam towards the shuttle, as it sped down the runway, only barely missing when the cannon had discharged.

Quatre's Gundam moved into position on the runway, trying to put himself between the airborne Gundam and the shuttle. "H-Hold on a minute! The shuttle's carrying…"

He came a second too late. The airborne Gundam rocketed over him and, drawing a beam saber from its shell, pounced on the shuttle.

Inside, Noventa watched from his small window. _So, this is it. I suppose Khushrenada was right… _"Now, young man, don't do anything foolish…" he muttered into the handset.

A fraction of a second later and the Gundam's beam saber cut clean through the small shuttle's armored fuselage, setting its fuel tanks aflame. The Gundam fired its vernier thrusters, just as the shuttle vanished in a fireball, obliterated, debris shooting in every direction.

Relena gasped, not at the shuttle, but at the chunks of armor plating thrown from the explosion, crashing against the tarmac closer and closer to the main terminal, before debris struck the building itself with the force of light artillery. The Plexiglas cracked and shattered, and the ceiling came tumbling down on Septim.

"Relena!" Darlian screamed, shield her from the ceiling as it came down.

**II**

He was magnificent to watch in action. Like many other soldiers of OZ, Zechs Merquise had cut his teeth on the OZ-07AMS 'Aries' years ago. And while the Lightning Baron may have publicly favored the OZ-06MS 'Leo', the mainstay of ground warfare for two decades, he was still deadly with the Aries.

_"Damocles Actual, check your six!" _

Zechs unloaded his chain rifle down the chasm between rows of burning hangars of Jomo Kenyatta International at Nairobi, his fire finally hitting home at a Leo armed with a beam rifle taking cover behind a collapsed crane. The main camera and floodlight burst as the Leo fell backwards, continuing to fire up into the air.

"Damocles Actual!" Flight Lieutenant Walker shouted, above him. In his wave of destruction, Zechs had neglected a Leo armed with a beam rifle, two hundred meters behind him. Walker made an improvised foothold on a hangar roof, his Aries' feet sinking a meter into the building, and fired his chain rifle at the Leo in multiple, uncontrolled bursts, forcing the Leo to begin to withdraw. Zechs turned around and fired in the same direction, blowing off the Leo's legs and bringing it crashing down. A second later, the cockpit hatch blew off and the pilot ejected out, flying high into the air.

Zechs sighed in his cockpit. "Thanks, Walker. I think I got carried away."

Walker lifted off the roof, hovering just over Zechs before landing beside him. _Not much fuel here. We expected this, going in with our tanks half full. _"No problem, Lieutenant Colonel."

_"Where's your Japanese comrade?"_

_Ogasawara? Where is she? _"Damocles 1-3, this is Damocles 1-2, come in."

A half kilometer away, Flight Lieutenant Ogasawara Emi was fighting her way to an Aries she'd seen shot down just a few minutes earlier without ejecting. With a few quick bursts, she landed just outside south barracks and switched to her machine's legs.

_"Damocles 1-3, where are you?"_

"Damocles 1-2, this is Damocles 1-3. I just saw Muhuru Actual go down at the barracks, no parachute. On site now," she said, her Aries running along the barracks.

_"Acknowledged. Damocles 1-2 joining you."_

"Negative, Damocles 1-2, I've got this under control!" she yelled, leaning around a corner and catching a Leo unawares, filling its back with 90 mm APFSDS at very close range. The systems wrapped around the ultracompact fusion reactor were penetrated and burst, spraying her Aries with harmless but distracting liquid nitrogen and deuterium fuel as it fell back. Ice condensed on the Aries' superstructure before shattering in shards.

_"Acknowledged, Damocles 1-3. Watch out for the next reinforcement wave, ETA three minutes from the east." _

"Fuck," she mumbled, as she ran past the Leo and to the Aries wreck, a smoldering wreck in the side of one of the barracks. Its starboard shoulder turbofan housing was shot apart, the jet engine still on fire, and it was missing a leg.

"Muhuru Actual, this is Damocles 1-3. Respond!"

The response came back, weak and buzzing. _"Damocles 1-3, this is Muhuru Actual. Thanks for coming…uh, my right leg's broken and I crashed cockpit down, can't blow the emergency releases."_

"On it, Muhuru Actual."

Damocles 1-3 leaned down and carefully pushed the Aries with its left hand, rolling it over. As she performed the maneuver, Ogasawara heard a cry of pain over her headset, causing her to shiver. "Muhuru Actual!"

"Sorry, it's okay…I'm bleeding pretty bad, though."

"Acknowledged, hang in there." She changed the channel. "This is Damocles 1-3, requesting medievac for one pilot, coordinates one, nineteen, forty-eight by thirty-six, forty-eight, thirty one. Look for red smoke!"

With her left thumb, she fired a flare from a purpose-built launcher behind the Aries' head compartment. "Muhuru Actual, trying firing the releases now!"

There was a grunting sound, and on her forward display, she saw a cloud of smoke as explosive pins blew off the clamshell hatch over the Aries' cockpit, with enough force to overturn a bus near the wreck. A few seconds later, the pilot unfastened his restraints and crawled out, managing to slide down to the leg joint.

Ogasawara smiled for a few seconds before the alarm tone in her cockpit went off, and she turned to her port display, just in time to see an a Leo with a shield and a beam carbine. Shifting her mobile suit, she managed to fire a burst which struck the carbine, puncturing the cooling unit and spilling liquid nitrogen, before her magazine was expended. The Leo discarded the carbine, reached into its shield and drew a beam saber, which it promptly activated and charged at her with.

_Damn it! I use my thrusters and I'll kill Muhuru Actual. _She had no choice but to brace her mobile suit on the ground and fire her missile pods, which missed the Leo at such a close distance. The Leo brought down its beam saber in a killing stroke, only to have its right arm caught in the Aries' left.

_Fuck, can't reload!_ She looked at the pilot, who was limping away, and was about to take the chance of activating her thrusters when the Leo shuddered violently and its camera floodlight died. Gritting her teeth, she pushed the Leo off her. Thirty meters to the northeast, a Leo carrying a 105 mm automatic cannon flashed its floodlight at her, simultaneously pinging her the IFF. An OZ sympathizer.

"Thanks," she mumbled, lying back in her cockpit.

Though he couldn't have heard her, the Leo physically raised its left hand at her, before adjusting its heading and marching off. "Muhuru Actual, where are you?"

_"In a trench. I'm fine, for now."_

"Acknowledge. Damocles 1-3, returning."

At that time, the remainder of Damocles flight—four mobile suits, including Zechs Merquise and Oswald Walker—was holding down a strongpoint at the old bottling plant, just on the edge of Nairobi AFB. Their fuel exhausted was exhausted, the Aries were confined to ground combat. It wasn't their specialty, and it required a very careful, deliberate fighting style for long periods of time.

Using one of the collapsed bus depot buildings as cover, Walker did his best to back up Zechs as they fired from their barricades. Without flight, their primary advantage—mobility—was gone. _Without mobility, we're left with firepower, which we're running out of. _

A tone sounded in his alarm, indicating an empty box magazine. He discarding it, letting it fall onto a nearby jeep, crushing the windshield and hood. _That leaves three magazines, about three-hundred sixty rounds. And we went into this operation overloaded, to boot. _

_"Damocles Flight, this Air Sentry Eagle Eye. Reporting inbound Alliance military assets—counting remains of two mobile suit divisions, repeat, two mobile suit divisions. ETA six minutes!" _

_Two divisions—that'd be the 73__rd__ and 91__st__, almost a hundred mobile suits. We went into this with seventy-two airborne suits, and we've already taken heavy losses against the 105__th__ and their ground and air support. This is bad. _

"Lieutenant Colonel Zechs, we can't stay here!" he yelled into his headset.

"Agreed. We need to regroup with Noin, Krist and everyone else." Zechs checked his own ammunition displays.

_"Sirs! We're running out of firepower here!"_

"I know, Damocles 2-3," Zechs retorted.

_"Damocles Actual! This is Warrant Officer Petrova at Lake Navaisha! Code is Zero-Nine-Zero-Five-Five Pretoria."_

"Walker!"

In his own cockpit, Walker fished a small book of passcodes out of his pocket and flipped through them "Confirming code, Damocles Actual. It's good!"

_"OZ has seized the Alliance missile assets at the park, and we have five ballistic missiles on hand, awaiting targeting data. One was destroyed by Alliance forces. Repeat, missiles are standing by, we just need target data."_

"I'd forgotten about the missiles," Zechs admitted. "Walker, how much fuel do you have left?"

_"About five minutes of flight, sir."_

"Rendezvous with Damocles 1-3, then find the targeting laser. The rest of us will move to a new defensive point by the barracks."

_"Acknowledged! Damocles 1-2 heading out!"_

**III**

"I found it!" Flight Lieutenant Ogasawara yelled out. A few hours of rigorous combat, and the parts of her black crop top that weren't stretched taunt stuck to her skin, damp with sweat. _Hell of a time for the A/C to break down, _she thought.

_"Location, Damocles 1-3?"_

"JKIA Police Station! Two hostiles on site!"

She watched as Walker's Aries appeared to her left.

_"You take the lead, I'm running on fumes here!" _he warned her.

"Acknowledged, you take the autocannon, I'll take the beam rifle!" Both Aries mobile suits opened fire on the two Aries by the burning police station, their shots crossing and striking the two Leos. The two Leos attempted to track them as they crossed over, firing back into the air.

"Too slow, ground hugger!" Ogasawara shouted, bringing her Aries around and firing another burst, this one sending the Leo to its knees. As she closed, she fired another burst, this one blowing off its head.

Walker's Aries was losing altitude, before deploying its legs and landing near the toll gate. The Leo scored multiple hits on his turbine and legs, blowing off ERA plates, as he steadied his aim.

"What are you waiting for?" Ogasawara demanded, just before he finally fired a burst downrange, followed by another. The Leo was hit in the chest and head, shattering the floodlight and monoeye, before its posture faltered and it began firing at the ground. A second later an explosion blew out the reactor compartment, also blowing out the cockpit door, while the Leo remained upright,

"Damocles 1-3, are you all right?"

Walker responded immediately, as his Aries walked over to her carefully. _"Number three turbofan's hit and running rough. I'm out of fuel anyway."_

"Acknowledged. The targeting laser's here, on the east side of the building, can you…"

_"Say no more, I'm on it." _On the other side of the building, the Aries kneeled down on its knees, its left hand holding it up for support. She watched the clamshell hatch open, and Walker threw his tether over the edge and slid down on it, machine pistol in hand.

Breathing in the smoky, early morning air, Walker yanked off his uniform cap and fully extended the machine pistol's stock, flipping off the safety. The police station burned violently ahead of him but he didn't feel like taking chances.

"Damocles 1-2 on foot. What do you see, Damocles 1-3?"

Ogasawara's own Aries touched down, on the other side of the building. Inside its housing in the Aries' head, her main camera pivoted left and right. "Damocles 1-2, you're all clear."

Walker sprinted to a military car, clutching his machine pistol. He stepped towards the corner of the vehicle, before peering around the corner briefly. "Damocles 1-3, can you put some fire on the second floor of the police station?"

Her Aries raised its chain rifle. _"On it, Damocles 1-2." _Walker pulled down his headset, covered his ears and closed his eyes underneath his goggles, as Damocles 1-3 sprayed the second floor with chain fire, blowing through the cement walls and knocking burning cinders and shrapnel out the other side. A single, burning figure flung itself through one of the windows and onto the ground a few meters upwind from Walker.

Walker ran past the burning corpse, briefly keeping his weapon pointed at it, and to the other side of the building. It was a relief, actually—for at least four years, he'd grown accustomed to firing at other mobile suits or armored vehicles. He'd even grown used to shooting at _people_ from a mobile suits, in large part because they disappeared into bloody spots very quickly. But shooting at people with small arms on foot—that was something he hadn't gotten used to. He'd gone through basic training, but that didn't change the fact that infantry combat terrified him. The vulnerability of running around, only protected by whatever body armor you might be wearing, when a single bullet might end your life, they were all things that scared him. Shooting someone in person was also horrific and he was glad Ogasawara had done it for him.

On the other side of the building, sitting on its side on a flatbed of a cargo truck, was modified beam rifle that mounted the special targeting laser, intended for beam-riding guidance. He scanned the building and surroundings for any threats, then approached it.

He pulled off the protective tarp, climbed on top of the beam rifle and pulled open the access plate, above and forward of the trigger housing and underneath the carrying handle, on the left side of the weapon, switching on the local computer. _This sort of terrestrial beam rifle can be used by an Aries, though it's most commonly used on a Leo. So I just need to manually reconfigure the BIOS to operate on an Aries. _

"I'll need ninety seconds after the BIOS boots up to reconfigure the weapon."

_"Acknowledged."_

Standing crouched over, once the BIOS finished booting, he used the small number pad to navigate through the menu until he could begin rewriting commands. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a compact solid-state computer drive and plugged it into an open data port and began rewriting part of the weapon's firmware.

Sighing, he leaned against the flatbed and slid down, taking a moment to rest. "Do you hear that?"

_"Hear what, Damocles 1-2?"_

_Right, my headset's still on. _He didn't answer and instead, carefully approached the police station, brandishing the machine pistol. Just under the sound of distant gunfire and rocket artillery, he heard something different, a human voice speaking steadily. Stepping inside the first floor of the building, the sound grew louder and clearer, until he found the origin: an overturned television set in the lobby that was left on and switched to an international news channel.

Very carefully, he flipped the TV right-side-up and watched. The anchor was discussing the ongoing attack at New Edwards.

_"Today at New Edwards Air Force Base, Field Marshal Noventa of the United Earth Sphere Alliance was advocating for a global disarmament in pursuit of peaceful coexistence with the space colonies. However, extremists from the colonies sought to protest the summit and commenced an attack with new mobile suit technology. Marshal Noventa and other members of the peace summit are believed to have been killed in the attack."_

Walker had no idea he was watching the same broadcast as the Gundam pilots a continent away. This particular news network was known for its anti-Alliance attitudes, but was still reporting what was soon to be the biggest news event worldwide.

_"We're still waiting on conformation, but this could be interpreted as an outright declaration of war on the Alliance by the colonies."_

_The colonies sent five Gundams to Earth to kill and destroy, and that wasn't __an act of war? What a wonderfully tolerant, enlightened age we live in, _he thought cynically. _That war council had the most respected military leaders on Earth. They've made themselves enemies of all of Earth. _

_"Walker, what's taking so long?"_

"Sorry about that," he said, running out of the building and back to the targeting laser. On the small screen, ninety percent of the necessary files had been overridden. "And…it's done. Damocles 1-3, try picking it up."

He backed away, as the Aries stowed its chain rifle on a hardpoint on its back between the turbofan thrusters. It then knelt down and picked up the system, interfacing with the weapon's firmware and arming it.

Ogasawara checked her weapons display and nodded. "That did it, Walker. Damocles Actual, this is Damocles 1-3, the targeting laser is operational and I have more than ten minutes of flight time. Your orders?"

_"Damocles 1-3, this is Damocles 2-1, Zechs wants to storm the headquarters. Rendezvous with Muhuru group and target Alliance fire support on Ngong Hill to the southwest, ASAP. Bring Walker, you may need him for adjustments on the targeting laser." _

"Acknowledged, Noin." She switched to the short-range radio. "Walker, we need to rendezvous with Muhuru Flight. How's your mobile suit?"

He responded quickly. _"My machine's ground-confined. I can support you from below."_

She closed her eyes and crossed her arms. "Negative, Walker, that'll take too long. For now, you're abandoning your machine."

_"Wait, what? Are you sure, I could follow…"_

She tapped her weapons display screen. "Negative, if something goes wrong with the laser, you're the only engineer. Hang on, I'm opening up."

"Wait, how is that going…" Walker began, before he was cut off as the Aries kneeled down. Ogasawara opened her hatch and tossed down the tether, which Walker reluctant held onto and let it lift him up. When he climbed into the cockpit, Emi had opened up the floor compartment immediately left of the foot pedals.

"No offense, Flight Lieutenant, but I don't think I can just sit in your lap."

"Good, because you're not," she said, tossing him a pressurized flight mask attached to a small gas cylinder. He held it as she tossed him a safety harness.

Walker glanced over his shoulder, at the long beam rifle. "Please tell me you're joking."

"That's what the harness is for. You've never ridden outside before?"

"You fire that beam rifle, and I'll be flash-cooked alive," he told her.

"No one's telling you to strap yourself to the barrel. Stay under the handle."

"That'll hardly matter."

"Fine then, I won't use the beam rifle."

"What if you drop it?" he asked.

"Now who's joking?"

"This isn't a joke, you could be hit by ground fire, lose an arm or have your right manipulator fail. I can think of a dozen things right now that would kill me almost instantly."

"Of course, you're an engineer," she countered. "Now _move!_"

Despite his objections, within a few minutes, he had donned the harness and used it to strap himself to weapon's body, under the handle, so he was within reach of the access panel.

He opened the valve on the oxygen cylinder and tried to steady his breathing through the mask, now tightly secured to his face. He closed his eyes under the goggles. "I'm ready!" he yelled into the mask's internal radio.

_"Hold on tight."_

He did just that as the Aries' turbofan kicked in and he felt the machine lift up, carrying the targeting laser along with it. "Gaaauuuhhhhhh..."

Inside the cockpit, Ogasawara was forced to keep the Aries going mercifully snow. She plotted the shortest route to put her within firing range of Ngong Hill.

"Walker, I'm getting some fire here, firing countermeasures."

_"What? Fire? What about fire?"_

The Aries deployed chaff and flare, as the few Leos on the ground fired in her direction, missing her.

_"I'm getting shot out here!" _Walker shouted, panicking. _Sure, walking it would have taken four times as long, but this is ridiculous!_

"Well, Walker, I can either go faster, or you can just accept that you're going to get shot at a little," Ogasawara said, sounding nonplussed.

_"I am getting shot out here!" _he repeated, more insistent.

"ETA four minutes!"

_"Oh God! Oh goddammit!" _she heard him scream as the Aries shifted a little bit from a lucky 105 mm penetrator striking a leg.

The Aries continued on slowly, finally coming to Misfit's position overlooking the hill of Ngong and the nearby township.

A pair of Leos turned to her position and flashed their floodlights red, then pinged her with their IFF transponders, identifying them as Alliance defectors.

_"Damocles 1-3, this is Misfit Actual. What's that on your beam rifle?" _a voice asked.

"You wouldn't believe it," she responded, deploying her legs and touching down between them. Under three kilometers to the west, a battery of OZ-07MS 'Tragos' mobile suits—the standard terrestrial fire support mobile suit—were dug into the hilltop and firing back down at Nairobi AFB. Each carried twin long-barreled 320 mm artillery, comparable in power to the dober gun. Unlike the Leo, the Tragos was purpose-built to mount those two cannons, and wasn't useful for much else.

_"Damocles Flight, that fire support is tearing us apart, I thought you had that handled."_

Ogasawara armed the targeting laser and shouted in response, "I'm on it, shut up!"

She changed the channel. "Petrova at Lake Navaisha, come in! This is Damocles 1-3!"

_"You're coming in clear, Damocles 1-3."_

"Beam-riding activated, fire one missile, coordinates: one, twenty-Four, zero by thirty-six, thirty-eight, zero!"

_"Confirming coordinates, one, twenty-Four, zero by thirty-six, thirty-eight, zero! Missile away! ETA thirty seconds!" _

Walked yelped as the Aries raised the targeting laser to camera-level and fired its laser beam in the direction of Ngong Hill. Ogasawara kept the targeting laser trained on one of the Tragos to the best of her ability, and in a few seconds, saw a 9K120 ballistic missile streak in the night sky, before it literally vanished into the fire support position. A second later, the entirety of Ngong Hill literally shook, silencing the artillery.

"Hit! Hit! Hit!" She zoomed in on the target area, and as the dust settled, she saw that one of the Tragos mobile suits had literally been cut in half by the missile on its way into the hill, and was now a burning wreck. The remaining mobile suits had been severely shaken, but were attempting to redeploy.

"Only one Tragos was knocked out! Lining up for another shot!" she yelled over the channel. "Walker, the laser needs calibration."

"I'm on it!" Walker shouted back at her. He leaned over the edge of the beam rifle and reached for the access panel, pulling it open. "Just a little…hold on!"

_"Walker, they're repositioning!"_

"I know, I'm working on!" he screamed back, exasperated. "This isn't like changing the resolution on a computer screen, all right?"

He fumbled with the keypad, bringing up the configuration menu again. "For starters, I have to do it upside down!"

Punching the enter key, Walker pulled himself back up. "Okay, that's it, recalibrated!"

_"Petrova, fire another missile, same coordinates!"_

_"Affirmative, missile away!"_

Walker shuddered again as the Aries lined up another shot, causing the protective panel to pop off. "Ogasawara, forget the mobile suits, look for an ammo dump in the ground! There must be one!"

_"I don't see one!"_

"Look harder! There'll need to be a door with a lift or a crane vehicle of some sort!"

Ogasawara scanned the fire support position until she came across what looked like a small concrete pillbox, behind which was a pair of utility cranes. Near the cranes was a disguised spot on the ground, covered with a camouflage net. "I think I see it, reaiming!"

Just a few seconds later, another ballistic missile vanished into the ground with a cloud of smoke. At first, nothing happened, until the entire hill shook violently and an explosion literally picked up the heavy artillery vehicles off the ground and scattered them like toys. The Eurasian ballistic missile had exploded somewhere amidst the concrete Alliance underground magazine, detonating the shells and literally blowing the cap off the hill like a volcanic explosion.

The explosion was visible from Noin's position, where she was confronting a platoon of Leos. One of the Alliance pilots saw the explosion and radioed his sergeant.

_"Sir, it's no use! We have to surrender!" _

_"Don't be absurd! Or are you one of those goddamn traitors?" _the twitchy sergeant responded. A defecting Leo downrange from him flashed his floodlight at the approaching Aries Flights. Almost immediately, his Leo command-type fired its two shoulder-mounted beam cannons into his comrade at near point-blank range, blowing out the head and much of the cockpit.

_"Sergeant!" _the other Leo's pilot screamed in horror. Noin's Aries and a Damocles 2-2 strafed their position before descending on it.

_"Nairobi is now under our control! Surrender and exit your machines now!" _she demanded over the open channel.

_"Like hell I'm surrendering to rebels! I'll never surrender!" _The command-type Leo fired its beam cannons into Noin's Aries, blowing off ERA plates on either side of the cockpit, just underneath the turbofan. Her Aries smoking, Noin aimed her chain rifle and pumped the Leo full of APFSDS at close range.

The mobile suit shuddered and exploded, as the remaining Alliance pilot dropped his 105 mm autocannon and opened his hatch, his hands over his head.

Walker watched as the cloud of rock and soil eventually returned to the ground, raining down as far their position. He shielded his head with his arm.

_"Ya mayor!" _Petrova shouted triumphantly over the channel in Russian.

_"Alliance artillery destroyed! Repeat, Alliance artillery destroyed!" _Walker heard Ogasawara yell as people cheered over the channel.

_"Affirmative, Damocles 1-3. Damocles Flight, Raven Flight, Kitsune Flight, all flights converge on the main terminal! Misfit Platoon, bring up the rear!" _

Their back broken and their fire support gone, the remaining Alliance forces were forced into a route as OZ and their supporters converged on their position. Ogasawara watched the unit movements on her radar display, as Walker released his harness and managed to climb back into the open cockpit.

"The third and fourth wave are running," she told him, pointing to a spot on her radar screen.

"This was strongest Alliance holding in sub-Saharan Africa," Walker said, craning his neck to get a look. "Without Nairobi, communications, supplies, reinforcements…forget them all."

Ogasawara nodded. "Hey, Zechs-_Chūsa_ is broadcasting."

Walker leaned back and up his hand to his headset, listening. Zechs was giving his prepared victory speech, apparently.

_"Resistance is futile, comrades! We need as many of you to live as possible! The era of the Alliance has clearly ended. It is up to OZ to fulfill the promises of the Alliance, and it is our responsibility to create a new world system, isn't it?" _

Ogasawara and Walker glanced at each other and smirked.

"So it's not just my imagination, then?" she asked him, shaking her head and laughing.

"No, that was corny, even for Lieutenant Colonel Zechs," he told her, before plugging his headset into her radio. "This is Damocles 1-3, requesting fuel truck at police station."

"I just hope New Edwards worked as smoothly as this," she told him, stretching her arms inside the cockpit. Apparently, _she _was tired.

"I'm sure Operation 'Pleiades' worked fine," he told her, still shaking. "The Gundams are many things. If given any thought, they are also surprisingly predictable."

**IV**

"Bastards…bastards! Like _hell_ I'll let it end like this!"

Bleeding profusely from his forehead, General Septim, commander-in-chief of Alliance Space Forces, crawled into the remains of New Edwards Combined Forces Headquarters. He'd escaped ceiling collapse at the terminal only barely, and was clutched the wound on his stomach with his left hand. _Good riddance, Darlian. I'll see you in Hell soon!_

Summoning his remaining strength, he pushed aside the corpse of an operator who had dutifully stayed at her position until part of the ceiling had collapsed much of her skull in.

"I'll show them. Show them the power of the Alliance Space Forces!" he mumbled, punching in the missile codes he knew by memory into the computer and transmitting them to the Space Forces' Missile Branch. They in turn bounced the signal to the vast array of missile satellites the Alliance had put in geosynchronous orbit of Earth. One satellite over North America was armed, as were the MIRV—multiple independently targetable reentry vehicles—nuclear warheads it carried.

"General, sir! You need to evacuate! It's dangerous in here!" a junior officer shouted at him from the doorway, bleeding from his neck.

"Shut up, I know that!" Septim snapped back. "Goddamn it all, if New Edwards or the General Staff are lost, I'll blow away this whole air _base if it destroys a single Gundam!"_

He turned the arming handle, arming the high-efficiency, 'clean' thermonuclear warheads, the most destructive weapons in the Alliance arsenal, and setting the target—the Gundams outside who had destroyed almost the entirety of the Alliance military leadership.


	8. The Treize Khushrenada Assassination

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 8 **– The Treize Khushrenada Assassination****

_15, May__ AC 195, New Edwards Air Force Base_

"I'm proud of him. I know it's bragging, but I know him—that kid, who intercepted the missiles."

Alliance Army Major Sally Po and two of her comrades were digging through the remains of New Edwards, trying to reach the Combined Forces Headquarters. With some shovel-work and some clever propping, they were able to clear the obstructions from the door.

Po's comrade flashed a light into the room.

"What do you see?" Po asked him.

"…I think that might be him. That's definitely someone." He flashed the light around. "Room looks pretty stable."

Carefully, the three entered the command center and approached the corpse slumped over the computer console. His face was entirely covered with dried blood and soot.

Po winced, as one of her colleagues reached forward and very carefully moved him. "Yeah, that's him!"

"How do you know?" the other asked.

"Look, it's the Order of Leopold," he, reaching for the corpse's uniform collar and yanking of a cross-shaped Belgian medal that had been around his neck. "This is definitely General Septim."

The officer looked at the medal, then slipped it into a pocket.

"Jesus, George, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"What do you care? It's not like there's a bloody Alliance anymore, we're all out of work!"

As the two squabbled, Po pointed her flashlight at the cracked display screen directly in front of them, then looked around for a few more minutes.

"So this is it," she mumbled. "The Alliance is no more."

She turned to them, flashlight in hand. "Maybe it's for the best."

One of the officers looked at her incredulous. "Oh, come on, Sally. I know the Alliance had some problems, but are you really that happy about it?"

She smirked. "Maybe, but I'm not exactly planning on joining OZ any time soon. Look what they've done, after all."

The officer frowned. "Okay, Sally, we need to get one goddamn thing straight: look what _they've _done? Are you talking about the mutiny you apparently don't give a shit about? Because yes, that was OZ. Or are you talking about the fact that five Gundams descended on New Edwards and killed _everybody_? Because that's not OZ's fault, last I checked."

Sally cocked her head. "But the Gundams…"

"The _Gundams _have goddamn control over _themselves_. Even if OZ put the Alliance leadership here—which, by the way, was proposed by a bunch of stupid old man who are now _dead_—the Gundams pulled the fucking trigger. Nobody _made _them attack New Edwards," he snapped, yanking open Septim's holster.

"He's got a point, Major."

Po didn't respond.

"You know, you're right. Maybe this was a merciful death for the Alliance. But don't forget who killed Noventa, Ventei, and even this sad bastard," he said, pushing the chair Septim sat in with his foot.

Sally Po seemed to think about it for a few seconds, and walked past the two, shrugging, towards the exit.

**II**

Lieutenant Colonel Une sat inside the cockpit of her OZ-06MS 'Leo', armed only with a beam saber she'd down from the shoulder-mounted shield. She'd been waiting at pier at Santa Catalina Island, putting herself between Treize Khushrenada's command ship and New Edwards Air Force Base, about thirty kilometers away at Huntington Beach.

Just as she'd expecting, the Gundam had shown up—the one armed principally with short-range weapons and thought to have a young Chinese colonial as a pilot.

"Gundam!" she yelled over the open channel. "I'm your opponent! You're not getting any closer!"

The Gundam pilot responded quickly. _"Step aside! You can see for yourself, you'll never beat me!"_

_Who taught this kid how to speak? Chaucer? _Une thought, amused, as Treize's command ship—a converted cruise liner from the pre-war period, the _Europa_—began to depart from the pier.

_"Come on, Gundam! I'm your opponent!" _she said, challenging him again.

Chang Wufei sat in his cockpit, indignant. _This crazy woman is out of her mind. _"Out of my way!" he demanded.

_"You're not laying a finger on His Excellency!"_

He practically laughed. "You plan on challenging me with a saber? _Stupid move_!" he told her as his Gundam drew its trident-shaped beam weapon.

The Leo's pilot gave a war cry deeper than Chang could manage at his age, and he yelled back at her, "Stupid woman!" before charging with the trident.

"Don't be so sure of yourself, Gundam!" Une yelled in her cockpit, as she managed to deflect the overly-aggressive blow with her own beam saber. By design, the two closed magnetic fields emitted by the weapons repulsed each other, keeping the "blades" from passing through one another. The Gundam pilot was stunned she was able to parry his blow, and she took advantage to pull back and strike a blow herself.

Chang recovered, and in his empty left manipulator, caught the Leo's right arm. Diverting his reserve power to it, he closed the manipulator as far as he could, and managed to crush the titanium alloy. In a single swift motion, he tore off the entire forearm.

"How…how dare you!" Une cried, in shock. She had no idea the sort of power a Gundam could output. She then made another mistake—she punched the Gundam three times with her left arm, only to shatter the manipulator on the third punch.

"Impossible!" Gundanium was much harder than she expected.

Chang Wufei took the moment to smirk. _"You can see for yourself…that you'll never beat Nataku."_

"I never realized Gundanium was so strong," she mumbled to herself. Her thoughts were interrupted when the Treize's command ship blew its steam horn loudly.

_"Looks like Treize wants to fight me_," Chang said cockily.

**III**

Flight Officer Kaneshiro was a huge woman—she stood almost two meters tall, with the lean, muscular build of ten years of near constant martial arts training. It had left her with thick muscles in her arms and legs, along with her tomboyish face. Conscious of her appearance, she'd once tried to make for it by drawing attention to her chest and hips, instead of her arms and legs. For the last few years, it hadn't really worked.

Like a miniature monument, she stood in her hunter green service uniform, arms crossed, on a balcony the House of the Assembly, the huge neoclassical palace constructed in AC 140 on reclaimed land in Tokyo Bay. The headquarters of the Alliance had moved around in the last sixty years, but it had come back to Tokyo for its death.

Underneath the building's central dome, she stood her balcony overlooking the Earth Sphere Assembly of Representatives, the legislature of the United Earth Sphere Alliance and the highest legislative body on Earth.

The 62nd, and final, Congress of the Assembly of Representatives had been forced by OZ. Not that parliament had any excuse not to be in session given this disaster. _And now that they're here, they have two options: dissolve themselves, or try and extend their legal authority over the parliaments of Earth. OZ will only abide by the parliaments of countries, not this interparliamentary body._

The complicated legal jargon was nearly over her head, but she was determined to know what was going on. She and her team were one of the reserve units called from the East Asian Military District to occupy Tokyo. Her OZ-07AMS 'Aries', and seventeen others just like it, were arranged in a line just outside the main entrance, surrounded by the OZ Internal Army.

"Hell of a thing, isn't it?" asked Chuang, the commanding officer of the 18th Special Airborne Division. He wore the crimson uniform of Speciali lieutenant colonels, like Zechs Merquise and Une, though he was twice their age and had a nephew who was a pilot officer.

"_Hai_."

She liked Chuang—in fact, she'd asked to be transferred to his command. He was a quiet, aloof man with a very restrained sense of humor. There was also the fact that he was mixed-blood Ami, an indigenous Taiwanese, which she took to heart: he had a comparatively short career in OZ, only ten years, before which he'd served in the Chinese Air Force. If Chuang could make lieutenant colonel, she thought that she, a born-and-bred Ryukyuan from Okinawa, who'd started her career in OZ, could make it half the time.

Of course, in this day and age, there were nor pureblooded people anymore. Outside of the reclusive monarchies in Europe and Asia, the whole world was "mongrelized", as some called it. The decades of war that predated the Alliance—often driven by racial hatred—had only slowed down the process, it hadn't stopped it.

The representatives were now voting, the last thing they'd do before they packed up and went back to their home countries, admitting defeat.

"I've been called to join the new General Staff," he whispered to the much bigger woman.

_Treize's General Staff. They're going to be calling the shots in the new OZ. Though the Romefeller Foundation will try and stop them. _"You deserve it, sir."

"Thank you," he whispered back to her. "I've recommended Kim and Zaitsev as potential replacements."

She nodded. "I think that's a good choice."

"Would you come with me?" he asked.

She thought about it, not answering immediately. Chuang gave a sad smile. "I didn't think so."

"…_Chūsa_."

"Kanna, I've known you for two years now. I know a _little _about you. You're ambitious, but more than that, you're a warrior. You have a sense of right and wrong, and you exert that through strength. Violence, and strength," he told her.

He looked at her and smiled. "OZ needs a General Staff, but you can do better. You're a warrior."

She looked at him and nodded, before looking back over the balcony. "Thank you, sir."

"There aren't many warriors left. Lots of soldiers, but few warriors." He uncrossed his arms and held his gloved hands behind his back. "Go forth and conquer, my warrior."

**IV**

Chang's Gundam touched down on the pool deck on the _Europa_, spilling water everywhere and cracking the tile bottom. With his manipulators, he ripped open the roof over the Crown Lounge overlooking the poolside, just aft of the main bridge, and propped his mobile suit on the deck beneath him with one arm.

His main camera focusing in, the figure of Treize Khushrenada stood, clutching a sheathed rapier with one hand, the other on his hip. He was waiting for him.

_Seems like he's the real deal_, Chang thought, impressed by his cockiness. The thought of caution foreign to him, he popped open his hatch, undid his harness, and let himself fall into the lounge, his _dao—_a type of curved, Chinese sword with a wide blade—in hand. When he landed, Treize drew his own blade, deliberately, with his right hand, holding it before him. His other hand held onto the sheath.

"'Names' Chang Wufei," he told him.

"And I am Treize Khushrenada."

The ensuing fight was short—Chang had a clear advantage in maneuverability, but Treize had been expecting for it. He could leap off the walls and ceilings all he wanted, it made little difference when only one of them was interested in striking the other. Treize parried his blows, using his advantage of height and minimally exerted himself. After a few minutes, a tired Chang unwisely charged Treize, had his strike parried, and ended kneeling on the ground, Treize's saber a finger-length from his jugular vein.

"The duel is mine," Treize told him, stating the obvious.

"Kill me," Chang told him.

Treize smirked in his trademark manner, before sheathing is rapier and walking away. Chang was left confused. "Kill me, or I'll just keep coming back."

"I'd very much like that. I hope we battle again," he told him.

Chang Wufei hissed angry and tossed his dao onto the floor. "Damn it!" Within a minute, he was back in his Gundam, and the Gundam dropped into the Pacific Ocean.

_Funny lad, that one. _The young man couldn't have been more than fifteen, if that. Treize enjoyed a good duel, and while he didn't win everyone—that was the only way you'd get better—he was used to the challenge of fencers with at least as many years of experience as that boy'd been alive.

Looking up at the missing ceiling of the Crown Lounge, Treize set the sheath on a writing desk and sat down, brushing some of the debris off. He'd actually been the midst of finishing a rather important document, his plan for the future of OZ, when he'd been interrupted. _A usual, a decent duel has left me a little…anxious? Not the right word, perhaps. _

He looked at the bottle of old, French cognac sitting nearby, and stood up. _But there's not enough in the world, is there? _He reached for the bottle and was about open the bottle and pour himself a glass, when the sound of a landing helicopter came through the giant holes in the room.

Treize sighed. _I was wondering when Une would arrive. _He took the rapier and walked over to the portion of the wall that was missing, surveying the damage. _Best I keep her from worrying. _

A second later, there was a rather humorous knock on the serving door.

"Come in."

Une entered, approaching him. "Master Treize, are you all right?"

"He was quite a formidable opponent," he told her. "Maybe not with a blade, but I can see why he makes such a good Gundam pilot. Next time we'll fight in his specialty, the mobile suit."

Une had no response. He turned to her. "Has there been any word from Tokyo?"

She nodded. "The Assembly just dissolved itself."

"Good. We'll pass along the Legislative Concordant to the United Nations Assembly. Have they decided where they're meeting?"

Une nodded. "Old Manhattan, in New York."

Treize smiled, amused. "A good choice. The leaders of the world either have a great appreciation for history or a healthy sense of humor."

**V**

Flight Lieutenant Walker sat inside the mostly-intact ready room at Nairobi AFB, on an aluminum folding chair, holding a manila folder. Inside were dossiers, active pilots both from the now-defunct Special Mobile Suit Troops and the Alliance Army and Air Forces. They were either self-submitted, or submitted by the high-ranking Speciali officers who were going to be leaving their commands and joining the new General Staff, under Treize Khushrenada.

_The staff officers can only take two, maybe three of their officers with them. That leaves a lot of F/Ls and F/Os if that unit is dissolved entirely. Of course, they're all Speciali, which makes them a rare breed. They're going to be the cornerstone of every mobile suit unit in OZ. _

Soldiers of OZ who had previously been soldiers of the Alliance Specials were going to be extremely valuable in this new era. And then, there were the defecting Alliance soldiers who had participated in 'Daybreak'. They were something of a rarity as well: they'd gambled with OZ prior to the inevitable collapse of the Alliance, even if only by a few days.

He looked through each dossier, coming up to one he recognized: Ali Kijana Mazuri, 2nd Lieutenant, Alliance Army. The handsome Kenyan native he'd seen necking with that smart-aleck Japanese woman. Mazuri looked more like an actor playing a military officer than an actual one, with his thin-rimmed glasses, perfectly cut hair and flashing smile. Now he'd gone from Alliance lieutenant to OZ flight officer.

_Mazuri and his comrades might as well be in a different world, than the thousands of Alliance soldiers who didn't play a part in Daybreak, but want to serve in the new regime. Their chances won't be as good. _

"Walker."

"Lieutenant Colonel Zechs," he said, snapping to his feet and closing the dossier, as though caught doing something he shouldn't have been doing.

Zechs smiled back at him. "We did well out there."

"Thank you, sir."

He gestured to the file. "Screening for your new unit?" he asked.

"Well…"

"Don't worry, Walker. No one deserves their own command more than you."

_I find that a little hard to believe. _"Thank you, sir." A thought occurred to him. "Sir, if you mind me asking, what now?"

"Excuse me?"

"About the Sanc Kingdom."

Zechs nodded. "Of course. I have an operation in the works, but in the meantime, I'm needed here. Just as well, we'll need fuel, ammunition, and repairs before any operation is feasible."

"Of course. And Tallgeese?"

He nodded. "That's actually what I wanted to speak to you about." He reached into suit pocket and produced a small, plastic data disk. "This is the all the flight data from Tallgeese since Corsica. It's not much, but it's there. I could really use your help."

Beckoning Walker to the wall, Zechs pointed at a large map of the Alliance North European Military District. He put his index finger of Scandinavia.

"Lieutenant Colonel Diego D'Ongelle commanded Army Group Scandinavia in AC 182, when it conquered the Sanc Kingdom."

Zechs seemed to be lost in thought for a second, before continuing. "He's not there anymore, of course. He's a brigadier general now, assigned to the General Staff. I heard he's commanding the defenders of the General Staff in Diekirch."

Diekirch, a commune in Luxembourg, was home to the Alliance General Staff's European Headquarters, one of the three major centers of Alliance military command on Earth. "I've heard the same," Walker said. "You want your revenge, sir."

"You know me, Walker. Maybe it's petty."

Walker actually considered it for a second. "I don't think so. I don't mind telling you sir..."

He paused, taking a deep breath and exhaling.

"Walker?" Zechs asked.

"If I the Gundam pilot were here, in this room, right now, I'd...I would..."

Walker stopped again, a hand on the leather holster on his belt. Zechs stared at him, smiling a little.

"You'd kill him. You'd draw your sidearm and shoot him dead," he said, finishing for him.

Walker coughed uncomfortably. "There are a few things I'm not very good at talking about, sir, but yes, I would."

Zechs stood back and put a hand on the other man's shoulder. "We still have some things in common, don't we? Some unfortunate things."

"I think so, Colonel."

Zechs grinned at him very briefly, before turning back to the map. "That's why I've called on you again.

Walker leaned forward, tapping on the map where Zechs had earlier. "At Sanc, you'd have the Fifty-Fifth and Ninety-Fifth Airborne Divisions of the Scandinavian Air Army, and the Hundred-and-Fourth Ground Division. Two Aries units and a Leo unit."

Zechs looked at Walker, a little stunned. He modestly tapped his head. "It's my responsibility to know, sir."

"Of course. And their composition?"

He stood up straight and rubbed his chin. "That's harder to say. We won't know for certain until the intelligence reports come in, but 'Daybreak' in Northern Europe claimed that at least two-thirds of each division was diverted to fight at Ramstein Air Base, in South Germany, with around ninety percent losses. The survivors would have dispersed back to the Jutland Peninsula, or to maybe to Büchel. I've heard there's still fighting there."

"But not Diekirch?"

"No. But even weakened, they'll definitely be expecting us at the Kingdom."

"So you want to surprise them, and use Tallgeese," Walker said.

He nodded.

"That would be a hell of a surprise. Do you think it's ready for operational use?"

Zechs seemed to think about it, when they were both interrupted by Squadron Leader Krist, who strolled into the room. "Look lively, boys, we just got word from Luxembourg."

Krist looked at him. "Walker, scramble all officers, OZ and Alliance, who aren't POWs. This concerns everyone."

"Yes sir."

It took about ten minutes, but the old ready room was filled with a dozen flight lieutenants and a much higher number of flight and pilot officers. They were joined by four company-grade Alliance officers—a 2nd Lieutenant, two 1st Lieutenants, and a Captain, all from the Army—and about a dozen Alliance noncommissioned officers and even a few enlisted men. The room was so packed, some enlisted men actually stood in what was the hallway outside the ready room, the wall between the two having been demolished in the fighting. The Alliance men and women still wore their olive uniforms, black caps, and white handkerchiefs around a sleeve.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Krist began, holding a sheet of paper in his hand. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

He looked around, as though something was wrong. "Where's Santiago?"

"Captain Santiago?" Noin asked.

An Alliance sergeant raised his hand. "Major, sir! At eleven hundred hours this morning, Captain Santiago said he was resigning his commission and returning home."

"_Home_? What, he's stealing a plane and flying all the way back to Cuba? You know what, never mind. Ladies and gentlemen, word just came in: the Alliance leadership has capitulated. The Assembly of Representatives in Tokyo peacefully disbanded, and its members are returning home."

There was some mild cheering and hooting in the room. Walker peered past Zechs to see Ogasawara crossing her hands over her chest—she was back in her wool uniform—looking a little satisfied.

"Save your applause, people. Anyway, this means the death of the civilian government of the Alliance. At the same time, at New Edwards, the Gundam pilots _killed _the whole of the Alliance emergency council, including Supreme Commander Noventa, Defense Minister Hohenzollern, the Foreign Minister, C-in-C of Space Troops Septim, and C-in-C of the Army, Ventei. Additionally, it's been confirmed that the commander-in-chief of the Air Force, who was missing, was killed at New Edwards. Navy Chief Singh, who was captured by the Eleventh Special Naval Troops near Calcutta, has also resigned."

A sobering quiet filled the room. Krist continued.

"As you know, the point of 'Daybreak' was to present the Gundams with a choice—they could acknowledge that they were at war with all of Earth, or retreat back to the Colonies. They chose the former. It's unfortunate that almost all of the Alliance military leadership had to perish, but they knew risk they were taking, and the Gundams knew who they were killing."

_I wonder about that_, Walker thought. _I wonder if the truth has been lost in its own sheer complexity._

"But either way, the civilian government and the military leadership of the Alliance has been neutralized. OZ will assume the responsibilities of protecting the states of Earth from the Colonies. In a few hours, we should have confirmation from Luxembourg, but we can expect that Special Troops here, and everywhere in the world, will continue to fight the remainder of the ex-Alliance military on Earth until they either disband or are destroyed. Advisors will be appointed by Luxembourg to oversee the smooth transition from Alliance Specials to OZ, but in the meantime, a senior officer, Lieutenant Colonel Armonia, will be flying into Nairobi to explain the situation further."

His sunglasses flashing, Krist looked away from the document. "What that means is this: I'm sure all of you have long-standing grudges to settle against the old Alliance. I'm sure some of you even have permission from Treize Khushrenada himself to see them through. But in the meantime, we will _all _remain at Nairobi AFB, which we will defend from any ex-Alliance insurgency."

He turned his head. "To our ex-Alliance comrades: this representative will explain what is to happen with you. I know many of you joined our revolution because you were interested in joining the Order of the Zodiac, and some of you will. And frankly, some of you _just aren't good enough_…so you'll be returning to your homelands to serve in their new armed forces."

This got a chuckle from the room, including the Alliance soldiers and officers.

"If you want to walk away, you may do so. Otherwise, you will remain at Nairobi until the representative arrives." Krist held up the piece of paper. "This is OZ Special Order No. 1! Operation 'Daybreak' has officially ended!"

Some of the officers in the room cheered. Walker shook hands with Zechs, as the two exchanged congratulations. He then shook hands with Noin, as Zechs shook hands with F/L Ogasawara.

Krist reached into the crowd. "Tsujimoto?"

Pilot Officer Tsujimoto stood at attention. Walker hadn't recognized her—she had a blood-stained bandage around her head, covering one of her eyes. She still looked a little self-satisfied though. "Sir."

"Would you mind making as many copies of this as you can and having them dispersed throughout Nairobi?"

"Yes, sir." She took the document and disappeared out of the room.

Krist seemed to loosen up. "Since we're stuck here, what I think we need is some celebratory champagne!" This got a cheer from the room. Within a minute, some Alliance sergeant had obtained a few bottles and popped the cork on one, nearly knocking a loose ceiling lamp onto the ground.

"All right, boys and girls, we've got a few hours before that representative arrives, and nothing to worry about besides an Alliance counterattack," Krist announced, holding the bottle in his hand and pouring everyone around him a glass. "In the meantime, have some goddamn booze and food, we've certainly earned it!"

**VI**

As Krist had said, it was a few hours before the special envoy from Luxembourg arrived, and she came alone. Walker was sent out to greet her, and only her, and he got the immediate impression that she had no intentions of staying at Nairobi long.

OZ, unlike the Alliance, lacked official political officers. The reason was simple: the responsibility of political indoctrination and education in the Alliance encompassed all branches, including the Special Mobile Suit Troops. Now that OZ had replaced the Alliance as the unified military force on Earth, political officers were one of the things OZ lacked.

This actually wasn't that big of a problem—the reality was, every military force on the planet, including the Alliance, relied on political and philosophical indoctrination. Whether there was an official branch in the military dedicated to this task, or it was hoisted on the smarter officers, was largely irrelevant: the outcome was the same. In the Eurasian Union, there were purpose-trained political officers who served as executive officers or other staff positions. In North America, executive officers or their immediate subordinates were regularly pulled from their commands to indoctrinate. It was practically just a shifting of hats.

Walker had never met Lieutenant Colonel Soris Armonia—a tall pilot of west European descent with thick, haphazard orange hair with unkempt bangs and forelocks, that she'd partially bleached blonde. He wasn't certain, but Armonia was probably a year or two his senior, and a Baroness—she'd earned her noble title through battlefield valor and a high number of mobile suit kills on Earth and in space in the prior years. Even though she was promoted after Zechs, the peerage itself was still a point of great esteem. She was as unusual looking as she was gifted, as Walker found out when she asked for a cup of tea before the briefing. Namely, she told him something he had suspected but had no way of confirming, and he grateful for knowing it.

_So, 'Daybreak' was a breakthrough coup d'état. Such an event can, realistically, be called an actual revolution as well as a coup d'état. Take the Xinhai Revolution in China, for example._

As he finished his tea, he looked at her over the rim of his teacup. _She looks like that ancient English musician/actor. What was his name? _

Lady Soris continued her lesson, apparently enjoying herself intellectually.

"Put most simply, OZ is shaped not just by history, but philosophy," she began in a calm, conversational matter, as though she were giving a thoughtful film review. "The Alliance was not an organization completely devoid of purpose, on the contrary, you could argue that it had too much purpose."

She put her hands together and leaned forward, her eyes flickering with a sort of mad intelligence. "Warfare has its place. _Homo Sapiens_ has not yet evolved to make warfare obsolete—even the Alliance was aware of that. Thus, to deny the nations of the world, political creations of intellectual and physical sacrifice, the right to any form of warfare to deny them their right to sovereignty. Practically, it's also problematic—hence the failure of the Alliance and rise of it as a ruling entity, rather than the peaceful arbitrator it was supposed to be."

"So OZ will not stand in the way of a nation's right to self-defense."

"OZ will not stand in the way of a nation's right to personal responsibility," she said, countering. "War comes with consequences. The one exception, of course, is space."

Walker nodded, as she continued. "Understand, space is the most recent step of human evolution. Not every nation can even participate in space. It is in the world's best interest that OZ represent a unified terrestrial humanity. It may not be completely just, but the danger—the potential destruction of human kind in the cradle of its species—is much worse."

She leaned back in her chair. "The Alliance sought to dictate warfare by inserting itself into all wars everywhere. OZ treats warfare as a specialty, not an everyday consequence of life everywhere. _That _is our philosophy—Treize's philosophy."

Walker nodded, holding his teacup. "It's ironic, then, that OZ's greatest enemies, the Gundams, are perhaps the most radical extension of that philosophy—the whole of effectual colonial warfare embedded into five young soldiers." He paused. "In their own minds, of course."

Soris smiled at him, an eerie but genuine smile. "Very good, Walker. Many men miss the forest for the trees."

Walker walked over to the table, pouring more tea.

_David Bowie! That was his name! _He almost said that out loud, but twitched very slightly instead, holding it back.

"A little too much celebratory drinking, Flight Lieutenant?"

"Sorry ma'am. We did take the time to celebrate," he told her plainly.

"That's fine. An OZ man is expected to conduct himself in a certain way. Nowhere does it say a well-earned celebratory drink shouldn't be enjoyed."

She cocked her head a little. "I've been meaning to ask, where is the Lightning Baron?"

"Lieutenant Colonel Zechs is resting, he's going to be immediately transferred to the European Theater. I was sent on his behalf."

She nodded. "You seem to have a good grasp of complex things. Would you mind doing me a favor?"

"A favor, ma'am?"

**VII**

The conference was held in the Kenyan National Assembly, in downtown Nairobi, by request of Lady Soris. It was a modest legislature, still very much in the style of the ancient British Empire and the form of government they had spread throughout the world, with wooden panel walls and a red carpet. Indeed, the Speaker of the National Assembly even wore a British-style wig, like barristers or parliamentarians in London.

The Kenyans were generous enough to accept her request, and while to the left of the Speaker stood the Kenyan tricolor—a black, red, and green flags with white fimbriation—to his right, the blue, red, and gold flag of the UESA had been replaced by vertical banner, the navy blue standard of OZ, with a smug-looking gold lion's head in the center over a triangle. It was the same cap badge Walker wore.

"First, business as usual," Zechs told Noin, sitting next to him.

"Of course," Noin mumbled. "And then?"

"Apparently whatever she's going to tell us isn't meant to be a secret," he mumbled humorously.

In the place of the Kenyan Parliament, OZ and ex-Alliance officers and soldiers sat in their service uniforms.

"We'll come to order," the Speaker of the National Assembly, a Kenyan man in British-style dress and wig. "Thank you. We will now recognize the special envoy from OZ. If you'd like to begin, Lady Soris."

"Thank you, your honor," Soris said, rising from her seat between two Kenyan clerks, in her red and white service uniform. "Thank you for your attendance. I'll be brief, the United Earth Sphere Alliance has been dissolved. The interparliamentary body, the Assembly of Representatives, had its last congress end yesterday. In accordance with the Interparliamentary Treaty in Shanghai, a list of the dismissed parliamentarians has been circulated among all the nations of Earth, who will be barred from serving in the next international organization."

"The Armed Forces of the Alliance have been disbanded. In actuality, between thirty and forty percent of terrestrial ex-Alliance forces still exist, numbering to approximately nine million regular and paramilitary forces."

There was some murmuring from the audience on the number. Soris continued.

"I've been authorized by his excellency, Treize Khushrenada, to administer a new oath of allegiance to all active military personnel. This mandatory to anyone remaining in service." She exhaled. "If you're against it, or the new Order, you have the option to resign right here, right now."

Soris looked across the room. No one moved, not even the ex-Alliance men and women.

"Very well then. Please stand, then raise your right hand like so."

In full uniform, they stood in rows, with their right hand raised and their white gloved hands closed into fists. The lone exception—an Alliance staff officer who was missing his right hand at the wrist and did not have a prosthetic—raised his left arm. The oath was led by Lieutenant Colonel Armonia, and the Kenyan officials in attendance stood.

"_I affirm that I will be loyal and obedient to the commander-in-chief of the Order of the Zodiac, Treize Khushrenada, that I will observe the law and to conscientiously fulfill my military duties to the Order, even at the cost of my life._"

Walker stood next to Zechs, whom he found himself watching as they recited their oath. Under his mask, he looked very mildly concerned. It was a normal expression for someone giving a serious act its due attention, but Walker suspected there was something else on his mind. _Every officer in this room took an oath to the Alliance. Unlike Zechs, most of them did not plan years in advance to turn on that oath the second the opportunity presented itself. _

He heard himself reciting the last line. _Of course, what does an oath mean if the last one was this easy to break? _

Soris grinned one of her eerie grin. "At least for now, I welcome all of you to Order of the Zodiac."

There was a round of applause, which even the Kenyan officials joined in on, and a few ex-Speciali dutifully shook the hands of the ex-Alliance officer sitting a road ahead of them. Walker himself shook the left hand of the amputee staff officer, who grinned back at him.

"Let's come to order, this is still a working day," Soris continued. "Now, ex-Alliance terrestrial forces will be targeted in campaigns both by OZ and by the nations of Earth. This doesn't account for the entirety of ex-Alliance extraterrestrial forces. As per the Outer Space Treaty, OZ will undertake the full responsibility of all extraterrestrial defense of space."

Directly in front of Soris, in the middle of parliament, was an ornate table with a simple built-in holographic projector, which produced a faux three dimensional presentation of the Earth-Sphere: Earth, Luna, the various Colonies and the other objects in orbit, in flickering blue light.

"For this purpose, OZ will undergo a radical structural reorganization. Lieutenant Walker will explain the details."

Walker, who had moved to a position behind the clerk's desk, rose to his feet and stepped to Soris' position.

"OZ has no defense ministry nor parliamentary body, and will be controlled by the commander-in-chief and by the General Staff. It will be divided between two branches—the Earth Forces and the Space Forces. Earth Forces will consist of the terrestrial Mobile Suit Troops, Air Defense Forces, the Naval Defense Forces, and the Internal Army. The Space Forces will consist of Space Mobile Suit Troops and the Strategic Space Command."

Walker pressed the control panel on her end of the table. Several polygonal figures immediately around Earth were highlighted. "Strategic Space Command will consist of the space station _Barge_, along with all of the ex-Alliance Strategic Missile Forces assets in space and anything else."

An ex-Alliance sergeant, at least thirty and with a shaved head, raised his hand. Walker glanced at Soris who nodded.

"Yes?"

"This…Internal Army, is that where the Marines are going, sir?"

_Right, the Alliance Marines. _"Those divisions OZ is interested in keeping intact will be moved wholesale into the Internal Army. That includes the Marines."

Soris spoke again. "Our major concern is space. We're still expecting that the overwhelming majority of Space Forces off-Earth are still intact. While OZ is still formulating a policy towards the Colonies, it doesn't change the fact that most of the regular Space Navy and several Space Armies using Colonies as staging areas."

_Space Armies. That means Pioneer and Assault Leo Troops_, Walker thought. _Those new Taurus units had better come through. I hate it when things are rushed through testing…_

"Since the Alliance Speciali had no regular extraterrestrial units, experienced pilots and commanders will be diverted from the Earth Forces. They'll form the core around which we'll need to recruit new space pilots. If any of you have had any tours of duty in space, any at all, I ask that you speak to your commanders—if you're ex-Alliance, you'll have much better odds of staying in the Mobile Suit Troops."

The briefing continued for a few minutes, before Soris dismissed the lot of them. As they filed out of the National Assembly, she spoke directly to Zechs. Walker pushed his Armstrong motorcycle after them carefully.

"Walker, there you are," Soris said, smiling at him. "I was just speaking to your old commander, Zechs, about what needs to be done. I'll have some orders for you soon. Before my replacement comes."

She was about to enter a waiting jeep when she turned back to him. "Oh, and thank you for your help," she told him calmly. She climbed into the jeep and a driver took her away."

He stood next to Zechs, still holding up his motorcycle. "Replacement?" he asked.

"The regular political officer. Soris is going to command a crack unit in the Space Forces." Zechs crossed his arms and leaned against a lamppost. "She heard I wanted you for the liberation of Sanc, and decided to step in. OZ is fighting across the planet, and the situation is tenuous at places."

_Well, she's right. Your kingdom will still there tomorrow, but in the meantime, our whole war plan in space is dependent on a new mobile suit. If all units are functionally deployed, we'll still be outnumbered in space twenty to one. And then there are the Gundams... _

"She's a colonel, like myself," Zechs pointed out. "You can't very well defy her orders."

"I was aware of that, sir, and I've done some planning." He knocked down the kickstand on his bike and opened one of the saddlebags, taking out a black notebook computer with 'ASUS' imprinted on the cover. Unfolding it, he switched it on and turned it to Zechs.

"I've done the bulk of the data analysis," he said, gesturing to the OZ-00MS 'Tallgeese' schematics. "I'll join you in Sanc if I can, but if I can't, these should make Tallgeese operational for two or three battles, maybe more. I'll need to be updated after those."

Zechs nodded, as Walker ejected a large disk from the computer which he handed to him.

"Either way, once I'm made available, I'll handle it personally."

"Thank you, Walker." Zechs looked up. "I think I've spent too much time in Africa."

**VIII**

The order came that evening. Walker was sleeping, when a knock came at his door in the dormitories at Nairobi AFB. He was a light sleeper, so he got up to answer it.

It was Disraeli, whom Walker had known from his days in the Middle East Air Army. He could see from his epaulets he'd been promoted to F/O, and congratulated him.

"Thank you, sir." He glanced into Walker's small room.

"Oh, right, come in," he said, gesturing into his room. Disraeli walked inside and sat at Walker's desk, while Walker sat on his bed, straightening out his pajamas.

"Bishop got a commendation, though no promotion."

"So I heard. I still haven't looked at that kill count board outside," he admitted. "Too busy."

"There are only so many hours in the day, sir," Disraeli told him, glancing at the dossiers on his desk, now marked with red ink. "I don't know where you get the energy."

"I remember to sleep. You've always been a night owl."

Disraeli laughed reaching into his pocket. "Here you are. Orders from the General Staff in Brussels."

Walker took the sealed envelope, then tore it open. "It'll be nice to use our mobiles again, once the cellular network's back up. This is a little too retro for me."

Disraeli watched him read. "Well?"

"'Fall of Luxembourg is imminent. Alliance garrison expected to surrender by morning of the Seventeenth. OZ General Staff to be installed immediately after. New orders issued to all unit commanders.' They were very fast."

"We wouldn't be OZ if we weren't, right?" Disraeli asked, grinning.

Walker continued to read. "I'm to finish drafting my team. Then to immediately respond to my unit's availability for Operation 'Grand Slam', in Sri Lanka."

They both paused. "It's not an order, sir?"

"No, not quite. I could respond that I'm already being diverted to Scandinavia."

Walker stared at the document for a few more seconds. "Disraeli, would you mind doing me a favor? I heard you were going back to Lake Victoria."

"What can I do for you?"

He reached past Disraeli and opened a drawer, taking out something wrapped in red cloth. He looked at it once more before handing it to Disraeli.

"Would you mind leaving this at the memorial there?"

Disraeli looked underneath the cloth. "Is this _your _pennant?"

"Yes. It's obsolete now, of course. That'll be all, Mr. Disraeli."

Disraeli rose and saluted. "Sir!"

A few minutes after he left, Walker walked out into the hallway, holding the orders in one hand. He turned the hallway and stopped immediately—across the hall, by a pair of office doors, F/L Ogasawara stood in a taunt white undershirt and knickers, looking at the kill count board. In one hand, she held a letter like his, though he couldn't tell what was printed on it.

He immediately turned and walked back to his room. Ogasawara peered at him out of the corner of an eye, before looking back at the board, a hand on her chin.

**CONFIRMED KILLS AS OF 'DAYBREAK', NAIROBI, 15.5.195**

**Z. MERQUISE 9 KILLS**

**L. NOIN 7 KILLS**

**S. KRIST 7 KILLS**

She scanned downwards, about a third of the save down the posting.

**E. OGASAWARA 5 ½ KILLS**

**A . MAZURI 5 KILLS **

**O. WALKER 4 KILLS**

Ogasawara smirked for a few more moments before putting arms over her head and walking back to her room. A stone-faced F/O Disraeli saluted her she passed him the hallway, before walking out of the dorms.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes: <strong>_

_"Five and a half" comes from the partial credit awarded for collaborative kills (like in a missile strike). Historically, one became an "ace" after five kills or so—total, obviously. In the Second World War, getting as many kills in a single battle was not unheard of among the highest scoring aces (usually German). The astronomic kill scores of the G-Boys aside, 'Daybreak' would have created a huge number of aces for OZ, as far as suit-versus-suit combat was concerned. More original characters planned for the next chapter, be sure to leave feedback!_


	9. Three Cities

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 9 **– Three Cities****

_May 19th, AC 195, OZS _Colonel General Chilias Catalonia

It took half a day for Walker to get over his seasickness. F/L Walker was shocked that it was even a problem for him, it wasn't his first naval operation. _Something with my new heart and lungs? No, those aren't related to seasickness, right? Besides, with the size of this ship, it must be visual._

The OZS _Colonel General Chilias Catalonia, _formerly the EANS _Nagasaki, _hull code CVN-99, was a 400 meter long, 140,000-tonne blue-water carrier, powered by two pressurized water fusion reactors, far larger than the ultracompact reactors on a mobile suit. It was a hybrid carrier, with a normal complement of forty aircraft and thirty-two mobile suits. It had only half that number of mobile suits, and slightly fewer aircraft, leaving it largely empty. It'd been seized at Mogadishu Naval Base during 'Daybreak', with the assistance of Kenyan Armed Forces commandos, and promptly renamed after the founder of the Alliance Special Mobile Suit Troops, who'd been KIA in AC 193. It probably wouldn't have been renamed at all if it weren't the first carrier in the new OZ Naval Defence Forces.

Escorted by two guided missile destroyers and a radar picket ship, the _Catalonia _was a potential target for the Gundams, but Walker wasn't that worried. Since 'Daybreak' and 'Pleiades', the Gundams had been behaving very differently: distracted, distressed, even confused. At times they seemed to be laying low, while at other times they'd hit a target somewhere. One Gundam had made an attempt on Treize Khushrenada's life—it'd failed, but it was a reminder that they were down, but not out.

_"Flight Lieutenant Walker, please report to armory. Flight Lieutenant Walker, report to the armory."_

Walker looked up from tow car he was sitting on, then looked at his open notebook: he'd been sketching a pair of air wing maintenance officers, who were finishing their checks on a electronic counter measure warfare aircraft. Like practically all engineers, he'd learned the art of doing quick but detailed sketches, whether of machines or people. They'd all be taught the same techniques, and the end result was that all certified engineers in OZ produced _very _similar sketches, ensuring they had minimal artistic value. He closed his notebook and ran to the stairs and below deck, where he spoke to the _Catalonia_'s mobile weapons chief.

"And this is it?" the chief asked him.

"It should be. How long did it take to unpack?"

"About three hours, I think they went a little overboard," the chief told him. "I mean, I know it's made for space and all, but were they that afraid of the sea air?"

Directly underneath the armored flight deck, between two rows of OZ-07AMS 'Aries' mobile suits, was OZ's latest mobile suit beam cannon. Over ten meters long, made of reinforced titanium and more than a kilometer of copper alloy wiring, the beam cannon put out approximately ten terajoules of energy with each full-powered shot. For comparison, about five beam cannons firing simultaneously put out power comparable to a small-size fission weapon.

"Speaking of which, I'm pretty sure wherever you fire it on Earth, you're only going to get one shot. I mean, the internal cells have enough for _twenty_, but the heat generated in-atmosphere at the beam emitter is going to trigger all the fail safes."

Walker nodded. "Those exist for a reason. I'd rather only have one shot than a catastrophic equipment explosion."

"Good point," the chief told him. The middle-aged man looked at him. "You really don't recognize me, do you, F/L?"

Walker blinked. "I…"

"Don't worry about it. We only met once. AC 190, the Corsica Works. I ran one of the training workshops for the apprentices."

Walker nodded slowly and was about to speak, when the chief cut him off. "I'm not being entirely honest, I only remembered you when I heard the stories of what happened at Corsica. I was on leave when the Gundams hit, and reassigned to the Navy."

The two men stared over the huge beam cannon, as the chief scratched his head behind right ear. "So…you'll only get one shot."

"That should be enough to penetrate the entirety of the _San Francisco_," he said.

"You'll need two Aries to carry it if you want to fire in midair."

"I know. We're supposed to get a fourth teammate by the time we reach Colombo."

"So you'll split the team into pairs?"

"That's my plan, barring any situational changes."

The chief nodded. "Well, you kill the _San Francisco _first, and I'll treat your team to the best bottle of straight Tennessee Whiskey I've been saving for some real heroes."

Walker gave a nervous laugh. "I'll keep that in mind, Chief."

**II**

"I'm…I'm just so glad…"

Pilot Officer David Ackerson Bishop was dangerously close to crying, and Walker made sure to keep his distance.

"It's all right, Dac, just get ahold of yourself," he told him, looking around uncomfortably, as Bishop followed him across the flight deck. There had been four mobile suit teams aboard the _Catalonia_, so Dac hadn't actually known which team he was serving with until earlier this day.

"I promise you won't regret it, sir. I really do. I mean, I know I'm not a hotshot pilot or anything…"

_I'm already starting to regret it._"Dac, how long have we known each other? Just be adequate and we'll work on it from there."

There was the sound of slow clapping behind them. Walker and Dac turned to see F/O Ali Kijana Mazuri, in an OZ service uniform, approaching them. "Well, isn't this a touching reunion."

"Who's the black guy?" Dac asked, sounding genuinely confused.

Walker made an unusual sound—halfway between a grunt and an offended gasp—before his expression returned to its default 'neutral mode'. He gestured at Mazuri. "This is Flight Officer A. K. Mazuri, formerly of the Alliance Army. With his decorated war record, he was approved to be transferred directly into OZ, even without retraining."

Mazuri stopped his slow clapping and approached the two, one hand raised. "I appreciate OZ's ability to acknowledge competency, it didn't seem as though the Alliance was going to promote me to First Lieutenant," he told them, managing to not sound too superior.

"Hunter green looks good on you, Mr. Mazuri."

He nodded. "I heard they'll be a fourth man, coming in from Japan, a Specials pilot."

"Which just leaves _you_," Bishop said, putting his hands on his hips.

"What does that mean?" Mazuri asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Actually, I admit I find it interesting: all things remaining the same, who will be more successful in OZ, a pilot officer who was a Speciali or a flight officer who was in the Alliance?" Walker asked to no one in particular.

Mazuri and Bishop both stared at him. "You really do like explaining things, don't you, sir?"

Walker immediately turned to the east. "Hey, it looks like they're here."

Walker strolled to the starboard edge of the flight deck, followed by his two subordinates, where they could get a better look at the ship closing in: the frigate _Shivalik_. Taking the binoculars hanging from his neck, Walker looked closer at the OZS _Shivalik_, seeing a helicopter lift off from the deck and head in their direction.

At the _Catalonia_'s primary flight control, OZ naval personnel—distinguished by their summer navy uniforms, simple short sleeve blouses—watched the helicopter on approach.

"_Catalonia _Control, landing with six mobile suit pilots and one political officer."

"Affirmative, Sikorsky, you're clear to land on the forward deck."

The robust Sikorsky naval helicopter, well-armored and at 20 meters long, longer than a mobile suit was tall, set down on the forward deck. F/L Walker, F/O Mazuri and P/O Bishop stood along with the waiting cargo crew as the helicopter. Walker checked his wristwatch—they still had a few hours before they arrived at Sri Lanka.

The helicopter's crew exited and opened the sliding doors on either side.

"Officer on deck!" Walker announced, as and the other present saluted. Mazuri immediately saluted while Dac looked oddly at Walker before saluting in the direction of the door, his eyes growing very wide.

The first passenger to exit was a woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties, with pale, almost colorless skin. It stood in stark relief with her ink black wavy hair, hair black enough that it made the hunter green of her officer's service uniform stand out against it. The formfitting uniform seemed to show off her narrow waist and generous bust, but unlike Walker, she wore a dark brown summer coat over her uniform instead of a leather cape. Likewise, she carried no saber, despite the fact that she must have at least been a flight lieutenant, according to her uniform—Walker couldn't see her insignia thanks to the coat, but had a suspicion this was the officer who would certainly outrank him.

The ranking officer smiled back at them with her blood-red lips—for a second, Walker thought she was actually bleeding out of her mouth, instead of wearing makeup—before lazily raising her right back in a relaxed salute before reaching for her suitcase. Despite a self-satisfied look, there was something melancholic about her as she slowly stepped out of the helicopter, followed by the other officers.

"Lieutenant Walker, sir!"

The announcement had caught Walker by surprise—the almost ghostly-looking ranking officer had distracted him, as she walked away with her luggage—and he physically removed the disappointment he felt in himself from his face before it could manifest. Another officer approached him, also a woman, but it would have been hard to find a woman more different-looking in OZ: she was a flight officer, a gigantic one in all dimensions, an easy twenty centimeters taller than Walker, meaning he only came up to her shoulder. She had dark skin and sharp, East Asian features—a pointed nose and angular, smart-looking violet eyes—and an unkempt mop of short, straight red hair. She wore the simpler, formfitting uniform of junior officers, which suggested she had thick muscles in her arms and legs, like a swimmer.

"Officer Kaneshiro," he replied back to her, returning her salute and shaking her hand—something he regretted privately and immediately. She had hands like a vice, and has soon as she released, he hid his right hand behind his back, opening and closing it rapidly.

Her white _hachimaki _headband blowing in the wind, she looked at Mazuri and Bishop, who almost shrank away from her. She kept her hand, in fingerless gloves, extended towards Mazuri.

"Come on, I won't bite," she told Mazuri, teasing him.

Mazuri smiled back, though the smile vanished when she closed her hand around his, and he pulled back quickly. By now, Bishop was actually leaning _away _from her.

"How's it going?" she told him casually.

Walker cleared his throat and spoke. "Kaneshiro Kanna will take the second seat in our team, staring with Operation 'Grand Slam'."

"Lookin' forward to it, sir."

The four of them stood around the forward deck, Walker sneaking a glance at the other officers climbing out of the Sikorsky—an unremarkable looking bunch, including a white F/L who resembled an older Walker with a scar going down one cheek. _I guess I should be grateful I don't have a very distinctive appearance, shouldn't I?_

"Well, since we're all caught up, I'll go ahead and ask what we're all thinking," Mazuri announced, in a seemingly reasonable voice. "Who was that gravity-defying senior officer?"

"Heh, gravity-defying," Dac blurted out before immediately turning red.

Kaneshiro answered plainly. "Oh, I know this one. That's Dr. Eva Cebotari, the new political officer. I think she holds the rank of 'Major', but everyone just calls her 'Doctor'."

_Just like Lady Soris said. 'Political officer' is a pejorative, she's still a military officer even if she isn't in the Mobile Suit Troops._"She's probably got a Ph.D. in Social Psychology," he explained. _Which leaves me wondering if I'll ever finish my senior thesis._"I'm sure we'll be meeting her again."

"Probably," Kaneshiro admitted. "Well, we've got a few hours, anyone in the mood to get some grub?"

She immediately glanced at Bishop and Mazuri who immediately let out some fumbling excuses. "We've, uh, got a thing…"

"What about you, _Taichō?"_

_Taichō? _"…Of course, I was planning to grab lunch anyway. This way, F/O."

The two entered an open bulkhead door at the base of the tower, unaware that the gravity-defying political officer was watching them over a shoulder.

**III**

What officers in the Mobile Suit Troops pejoratively called 'political officers' were actually commissioned officers in OZ's Military Commissariat, the department charged with monitoring recruitment and enlistment, first into the Alliance Specials and then into OZ itself. Some were officers with combat experience, others purpose-trained academy graduates who might never enter a combat zone in a mobile suit.

Walker was sitting at one of the long tables in the mess hall, resting his elbows on the table as he thought of various things. Looking around, he found that Kaneshiro was still getting food, and took out his new mobile. He'd realized he'd almost never used his mobile phone, since his old one was destroyed at Corsica, and in the intervening time he'd simply forgotten about the new one that was sent to him by his sister, who enjoyed the latest and greatest in personal technology.

Holding down a button, he said "Taichō" into the internal microphone. It took a second for the mobile to bring up a list translations, the top one being a Japanese word that generally meant "captain." _It's actually pretty accurate—if I weren't in the Mobile Suit Troops, I'd be a captain, not a flight lieutenant. Though I doubt she was thinking of that._

He tapped the mobile's screen, changing it to a report he'd been reading. _So, the liberation of the Sanc Kingdom has begun. I'm not there, though I'm not a son of Sanc._

Spotting Kaneshiro returning holding a large tray in either hand, he slid his mobile back into a pocket and politely watched her set the two trays down.

"Here we go," she said, sounding a little happy.

"Thank you, Kaneshiro."

"You can call me 'Kanna'," she told him. In front of him, she'd set down two curry platters, a pair of plates and a pair of chopsticks. "Dig in."

Walker had told her to get whatever she wanted, he wasn't picky. He wasn't expecting curry, he hadn't had curry since his maternal grandmother, an immigrant from Bangladesh, had passed away in AC 186.

"Sorry, I didn't bring any forks."

He took the chopsticks and split them. "Before I was transferred to the Middle East Air Army, my first assignment was the J.A.P. in East Asia, for almost three years."

"Really? That's pretty cool. Where were you?"

"Yokohama, quite far from Okinawa, of course."

"I've been there. Nice place."

Walker just nodded in reply, before taking some of the bright red curry and taking it into his mouth. He paused, held back the urge to spit it out, and swallowed, his face turning red and his arms twitching.

"A little hot for you, sir?" Kanna asked, grinning.

He nodded, his mouth clenched shut until Kanna passed him a glass of water, which he practically inhaled.

**IV**

_"This is about as simple as it gets. 'Grand Slam' has three primary objectives: the ex-Alliance Space Navy cruisers _San Francisco_, _Baltimore _and _Karachi_. Three _Los Angeles_-class fast cruisers, moored outside Colombo, Sri Lanka. Arrow Flight will target the_ San Francisco_, Eagle Flight will target the _Baltimore _and Beagle Flight will target the _Karachi_."_

The briefing Walker himself gave echoed in his head as he made final preparations before launch. The Aries had been fueled, and were being lifted onto the deck before being armed.

_"All three are taking on supplies before attempting a final escape into space, where they'll rendezvous with other ex-Alliance Space Forces among the Colonies. They've taken procedures to defend themselves accordingly. We're expecting only as many Leo units as they could rally to Colombo, but the real threat comes from the already-existing network of anti-air defenses."_

Walker watched as a preliminary aircraft was launched off the _Catalonia_. He remembered standing in the briefing room, pointing to main monitor. As usual, he was briefing all three combat groups. Dr. Cebotari was sitting in the back, her legs crossed. She didn't say a single through during the whole briefing. Instead she just stared at him with her crimson eyes periodically before closing them, apparently deep in her own thought. He was still a little uncomfortable thinking about it, and he'd probably made the briefing a little shorter because of her.

_"Our ECM aircraft, Bumblebee Flight, will be deployed first. It'll cover you while you make high-altitude insertions from 15,000 meters. We'll coordinate our strikes to force the defenders to spread themselves as much as possible. Once its objective is destroyed, each flight will immediately withdraw from the combat zone along this vector. The _Catalonia_'s_ _escorts will deal with any pursuing aircraft."_

"This has got to be a trap," he heard Dac mumble loudly, as he was pulling his gloves in his machine's cockpit. "No way it isn't."

In the machine next to him, Mazuri smirked. "I bet you check under your bed at night before you go to sleep."

Kanna appeared, climbing up the ladder to her own Aries. She'd taken off her tunic and was wearing a bright red crop top that matched her hair and showed off her muscular arms. She held a partial-pressure helmet under one arm, the tube slung over her shoulder.

"Aren't you gonna' get cold?" Dac asked.

"I don't really get cold," she told him, climbing into her Aries and dropping the helmet on the ground. "It's a tropical thing."

Dac looked at Mazuri, who just shrugged, before climbing into his own mobile suit.

Walker climbed into his own mobile suit last, after Dac, and buckled himself in. He removed his folding cap and donned the helmet, then put on his oxygen mask. Mobile suit pilots didn't wear these often—the Aries had a pressurized cockpit, and in space, you wore a normal suit even when inside a pressurized cockpit in an OZ-06SMS 'Leo'. But for certain missions where there would be a rapid change in altitude—say, from 15,000 meters to almost 0 meters—they were recommended. The helmets were similar, as the oxygen masks were attached to them so you didn't strap them to your head. They had the added effect of making you resemble the head-section of an Aries, which in turn was modeled after the appearance of military aviators for the last two centuries.

"Check your oxygen," he said over his radio set, built into his helmet. He hooked the mask's line into an oxygen cylinder sitting next to left leg on the floor of the cockpit. The Aries had the standard cockpit of a mobile suit—it had been copied from the Leo, with practically no revisions in ergonomics or layout. As Walker had found out, it was actually a copied from the OZ-00MS 'Tallgeese' in turn. The new OZ-12SMS 'Taurus' used the same cockpit, with minor changes accounting for its extraterrestrial role. They all had a primary forward display and three adjacent displays of the same size, immediately above, left, and right of the forward display. They were joined by two slightly-smaller auxiliary displays, one to the left and one to the right, which could serve as "windows" for extreme starboard or port views or display systems data more apparently than the screens on either side of the main control console. There were two flight sticks, built on throttle rails, two foot pedals, and the main console itself. Between the flight sticks and cockpit walls were a few more supplementary control surfaces, reserved for secondary controls, powerplant and engine management. Immediately above that was the main instrumentation panel: four multi-function displays, two large ones and two smaller ones, arranged in a line, divided in the middle by an artificial horizon and digital horizontal situation indicator. Above that were the autopilot control panel. In a sense, it was all very simple: no holograms, just LCD number panels, mechanical switches and knobs with safety covers.

The standard OZ cockpit had been developed almost twenty years ago, intended to allow a single human to operate an exceedingly complex war machine while not being overwhelmed by the data necessary for operation. Most importantly, it _worked_, and had been largely copied for every mobile suit by every manufacturer throughout the world, including the Gundams in all likelihood.

_The standard mobile suit cockpit is the pride of the Romefeller Foundation, like the Leo. But in both cases, Romefeller provided the money, not the genius. That came from OZ, and the engineers who were still working on the project after the Tallgeese was developed and rejected._

He checked his wristwatch. "Twenty minutes to Eight-Hundred Hours GMT. Load ordnance and prepare to deploy."

_"Affirmative, Arrow Actual. A reminder, we're going to load the beam cannon into a delivery device, which will be deployed once you're at fifteen-thousand. You'll need to manually recover it."_

"Acknowledged. Arrow Two, you and I will do the recovery and deployment. Arrow Three and Four will cover us on our approach. I'll reminder you that we have no other targets besides the San Francisco. No glory hunting, are we clear?" Walker asked. _There might not be a Gundam here, but I remember what happened the last time someone got stupid in combat._

_"Yes, sir."_

_"Yes sir!"_

_"Hai, __Taichō."_

The Aries mobile suits secured their chain rifles and missile pods, then got in formation on deck, as the next flight repeated the process behind them. From the crew pit, two catapult officers, clad in bright yellow flight suits, ran up to steam catapults. They would signal that the mobile suits, or any aircraft, using the catapult were ready to launch. Before that, though, their job was to direct the machines to the catapults themselves through hand signals. Walker and Mazuri took the starboard catapult, while Kanna and Dac took the port catapult.

From the primary flight control deck, Dr. Cebotari stood, back against the wall, near the door, as the air commander—a middle-aged man in short sleeves and a headset—along his staff directed the deployment.

"Arrow One, Arrow Three, you're ready on the catapult!" the air commander announced.

_"Standby."_

From the tower, they could see the lead catapult officer kneel and gesture with his arm extended forward. Walker's Aries' fired its turbofans, giving the signal.

"Catapult One!" an officer announced in the tower.

There was a jolt, and the Aries was flung forward on the catapult, before reaching the end of the track and taking off into the air, the one-use catapult rammer that connected the mobile suit to the catapult flinging against the armored flight deck after it released. It bounced a little, then fell into the ocean.

_"Airborne!"_Walker announced.

The second catapult officer got down on one knee and extended her arm. Arrow 2's turbofans spun to full power.

"Catapult Two!"

The Aries was flung across the port catapult, taking off at high speed.

_"Airborne!" _Kanna announced on the channel, as Arrow 3 and Arrow 4 manually attached their rammers to the catapult after moving into position. The whole process was repeated once more, and all four mobile suits were successfully launched.

With their turbofans using their afterburner function, the Aries flight continued its steady ascent into the upper troposphere, where they'd reach their mission ceiling of 15,000 meters above sea level. Walker had operated his Aries much higher—when repulsing colonial attacks from space, like the Gundams, it was quite common for Aries units to operate above the maximum altitude they could reach under their own power, being deployed by space-capable mobile suit carriers. You'd have Aries and even Leo units deployed in the mid-stratosphere, around 30,000 meters above sea level, and conduct military operations in free fall for about ten kilometers, before Aries could rely on their turbofans and Leos could deploy their parachutes.

"Steady on to fifteen-thousand," Walker reminded his flight.

_"Affirmative!"_ Arrow 2 responded, her voice muffled by her oxygen mask.

"Entering effective range of ECM aircraft." Walker checked his radar altimeter on his primary multi-function display, directly in front of him. _Nine thousand meters._"Switch to point-to-point comms."

_"Yes sir."_

_"Yes sir!"_

It took a few more minutes for them to reach 15,000 meters, about five thousand meters short of the ascent ceiling of an Aries. The weight of the beam cannon, along with their chain rifles and missile pods, would impede their machines' performance, hence the recovery operation.

Despite the climate control, Walker was actually shivering a little bit in his wool uniform. _ECM aircraft must be just a thousand meters above us, if that much._

He waited a few more minutes. "Altitude reached, Arrow Flight level out." A radar tone sounded in his cockpit and he looked at his MFDs.

_"Contact!"_Arrow 3 announced. _"Inbound, bearing Two-Eight-Five, at twenty-seven hundred!"_

In the distorted haze on the radar created by the ECM aircraft, a single bright contact was visible. Walker checked his IFF transponder, then looked back up.

"That's our ordnance. Arrow Two, you're on me. Three and Four, cover us in our descent."

_"Acknowledged, Arrow Actual."_

What followed was tricky—the launch vehicle was rapidly losing thrust and would glide back to earth at a very steep angle, making its flight trajectory a parabola only about three kilometers wide. During its descent, it'd reach about 310 km/h, just under terminal velocity. Arrow Flight would use its turbofans to intercept the launch vehicle at about 10,000 meters.

In the primary flight control deck, Arrow Flight's trajectory was graphed on a screen along with that of the launch vehicle, two intersecting parabolas.

_"_Catalonia_, intercepting LV, ETA two-hundred eighty seconds."_

"Affirmative, Arrow Actual."

"I can see it," Walker announced. He flipped up his helmet visor and yanked off his oxygen mask. "Arrow Three, Arrow Four, 'V' formation."

_"Affirmative, Arrow Actual."_Arrow 3 and Arrow 4 moved into position ahead of Arrow 1 and Arrow 2, as the whole flight came upon the launch vehicle—about eleven meters long with a wingspan of three meters.

Walker tapped his communications computer, just past his right flight stick. "Deploying beam cannon, _now_."

The sleek cylindrical aluminum shell began to flicker until it broke off in pieces which immediately vanished behind them as they met air resistance, revealing the beam cannon. The next maneuver was difficult—while staying in a 'V' formation with the whole flight, Arrow 1 and 2 closed in on the beam cannon before grabbing it with their manipulators simultaneously. Arrow 2 freed it from its carriage and the beam cannon was theirs.

_"_Catalonia_, this is Arrow Actual, we have the weapon."_

"Affirmative, Arrow Actual, good work. ETA to firing range of objective is two-hundred seconds," the operator in the tower announced.

_"Acknowledged, _Catalonia. _Going silent."_

Arrow Flight descended into the bottom cloud layer over the coast of Sri Lanka, at 3,000 meters above sea level, temporarily losing all visibility before they emerged out of the other end.

All four Aries extended their air brakes and flaps. Stretched out above them, about ten kilometers inland and to the immediate east of Colombo, was the Space Forces staging ground. His computer immediately identified his target, the EASFS _San Francisco_, to the west of the two other moored cruisers.

_"Where's Eagle and Beagle?" _he heard Arrow 4 demand anxiously.

_"They'll be here in thirty seconds," _Arrow 2 snapped back.

"Stow the chatter, Three, Four, interference pattern delta, go!" Walker ordered as toggled his weapons computer and armed the beam cannon, and began charging the weapon. By now, the anti-air defenses around Colombo had begun to respond, firing in their direction.

"Hold it steady, Kanna!" he shouted as his targeting computer finished its calculations.

"_Hai,__Taichō!_"

The beam cannon began to charge—using magnetic fields to draw in subatomic particles and nucleons from the surrounding environment, then charging them with an enormous, even dangerous amount of energy.

It took just over seven seconds for the beam cannon to charge a particle field more than four meters in diameter with ten terajouls of energy and propel it in the direction the emitter was pointed at nearly-relativistic speeds. The two Aries mobile suits visibly shuddered in midair—like every beam weapon in existence, it was not entirely efficient, and converted some of its energy to huge quantities of light, heat, and mechanical energy.

However, enough energy—more than 95% of it—was converted into the particle field. The _Los Angeles-_class were 300-meter long, aerodynamic ships with three forward-facing turrets, a coning tower, and a large bank of small engines that comprised the rear half of the warship. The particle field struck the cruiser just beneath the command tower, instantly obliterating the maintenance and loading gantries erected around the ship. A few seconds later, the particle field ripped out of the underside, before melting the cement and dirt underneath the ship.

"Hit! Hit! Hit!" Walker yelled. The particle field dispersed in under ten seconds. By then, the _San Francisco_, with a single hole through the entirety of the ship, had flames erupting from the inside. The ammunition magazines detonated, exploding behind the torpedo tubes and knocking the shipa hundred meters into the air by the bow. As it came crashing back down, the fusion reactor exploded, emitting a blinding light and a shockwave that knocked over cranes hundreds of meters away and even forced the defending Leo mobile suits to brace themselves. The _San Francisco _was completely destroyed.

"_Arrow Flight, withdraw! Beagle Three and Four will cover_ you!"he heard a voice tell him over the channel. Two black Aries flew by, before strafing the ground with their missiles pods and chain rifles.

"Acknowledged, Beagle Flights, thank you!" Walker yelled. Still holding the beam cannon, Arrow 1 and 2 began fleeing the scene at top speed, while Arrow 3 and 4 followed them. Behind them, Beagle and Eagle Flight targeted the _Karachi _and _Baltimore_ with the Aries' missile pods, targeting the weak points on the _Los Angeles_-class: the gaps between the thruster banks, the area behind the coning tower and the underside. It was slower work, and the Aries relied on hit-and-run tactics and forcing the defending Leos to inadvertently fire on their own command ships with their dober guns.

"They're attempting to retreat! The _Baltimore _and _Karachi _are attempting to lift off from Colombo!" an radar operator announced in the _Catalonia_'s control deck.

Dimly illuminated by flashing red lights, Dr. Cebotari looked over digital battlefield, looking at the flashing red points that marked the location of the _San Francisco_'s ruined hull, as well as the _Baltimore _and the _Karachi _as they began their hasty retreat. Green points marked Beagle and Eagle's units, as they swept past the _Karachi_. Explosions erupted along the hull and knocked free the booster rockets that were lifting it upwards, and the cruiser came crashing down. The boosters went in every direction, including one that struck the _Baltimore _and exploded, and one that obliterated an unlucky Leo on the ground.

"Major!"

The doctor glanced over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow at one of the communication officers, before crossing the primary flight control deck.

"It's for Flight Lieutenant Walker, from the Scandinavian Front. Apparently it's urgent."

She looked at the officer a bit, seemingly unimpressed, before taking the handset from the communications officer and brushing her long hair aside.

"Walker isn't available right now. What this urgent matter he should know?" she asked in a soft, very breathy voice.

The reply was short—an advantage of her tone was that people usually got to the point, very quickly—and she closed her eyes. "We'll be sure to let him know."

She took the handset and rather than putting it in the waiting hand of the communication officer, dropped it into the base, hanging up. The younger communication officer just stared at her, her eyes wide and a little confused.

"What was that about, ma'am?" she asked.

"Some comrade of his died in the Sanc Kingdom. I'll let him know when he returns," she told her, her breathy voice sounding largely indifferent to the news she'd been given. She opened her eyes and stared back at the warfare displays, watching the _Baltimore _be consumed in flames before it exploded violently a thousand meters above the ground.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author's Notes:<em>**

For those of you keeping track at home, we've just reached episode 10 in the TV series, "Heero, Distracted by Defeat" and are probably somewhere in the early fourth or late third volumes of the new manga.

The explanation as to _how _a beam cannon works in the After Colony setting is courtesy of the website "About Gundam Wing" (you can find it via Google Search). The times for the Taurus' beam cannon are from episode 19, "Assault on Barge."

It may be obvious who Kanna and Eva are drawing inspiration of—previously existing characters in their own right—so if you can figure it out, just imagine them in hunter green uniforms and enjoy the ride!


	10. Portrait of a Ruined Prince

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 10 **– Portrait of a Ruined Prince****

In the summer of After Colony 195, the Order of the Zodiac had taken center stage of Earth. Its successful breakthrough coup d'état had folded the civilian leadership of the Alliance, and it had simultaneously dispersed more than half of the Alliance's military forces on Earth, with the intent of destroying the entirety of the old order.

Colonel Treize Khushrenada arrived at the Diekirch, home to the headquarters of UESAEUCOM, the Alliance European Command, by his personal shuttle. He was grimly aware that he'd originally had two such shuttles to call upon, identical aircraft delivered to OZ during its _Speciali _days from the Airbus aircraft factory in Hamburg, Germany. The other shuttle had been destroyed by one of Operation Meteor's Gundams, with most of the Alliance high command aboard it.

Treize was here in the role of commander-in-chief of OZ, though it didn't keep him from looking outside at the ancient castle nearby. After the shuttle landed vertically, he disembarked with Lady Une.

The 1st Separate Company of the Guard of Honor, part of the Internal Army, stood on review for their commander-in-chief, stone-faced soldiers, all men, in immaculate hunter green uniforms, polished boots, and glistening sabers. Treize paid them a respectful nod—the whole unit was excellent, really, some of the best physical specimens from across the Earth—but he was more interested in what he saw behind them.

Standing proudly, and flanked on either side by a pair of OZ-07AMS 'Aries' in black livery, was OZ-00MS 'Tallgeese', the victorious machine of the successful liberation of the Sanc Kingdom. It dwarfed the four Aries mobile suits that flanked it, with its huge siege cannon and circular white shield, now missing its Alliance eagle emblem.

It wasn't the first time he'd seen the machine in person, but that was years ago. Treize watched it, glistening in the sunlight. It was nothing short of a work of art. "So that's Tallgeese. I can see that it's no ordinary machine."

Treize and Une paused on the causeway between two buildings. Tallgeese had been fully repaired and restored since the last battle.

"And that it could have no pilot but Zech."

Une cleared her throat softly. "Your Excellency, I wonder if giving him this sort of special treatment is wise."

He smiled, knowing he could always count on Une to say what needed to be. "Is it unwise to be treating an outstanding officer accordingly?"

"I'm concerned where that favoritism might lead," Une fired back, calmly, as the two stood directly before Tallgeese

"Lady Une, there's no need for you to worry about that. You've plenty of matters deserving of your attention," he told him calmly, a hand on his hip.

After reviewing the Mobile Suit Troops officers, including a few he recognized, in the main hall, he met with Lieutenant Colonel Zechs Merquise and Flight Lieutenant Lucrezia Noin in the commandant's office. Unlike the castles that had been damaged during OZ's assault, the Air Army Headquarters were in excellent shape.

"Welcome, your Excellency," Zechs told him, rigidly.

"I wanted to thank you for your service thus far," Treize told him, deliberately matching his stiffness.

"Thank you, sir."

"And Lieutenant Noin, I've reviewed the operations you've led on the frontlines. I should thank you personally as well."

"You're too kind, your Excellency," Noin responded quickly.

_Why should his Excellency be thanking his _own _soldiers? Worse more, some shamelessly accept his praise_, Une thought, not bothering to hide her distaste.

"I've put Lady Une in charge of the coming campaign. Should we begin?" Treize asked.

"Of course, sir. I'll be leading a briefing at Sixteen-Hundred Hours."

There was a clock in the wall to the left. "Then it's almost time, please finish your preparations."

"Yes sir," Une replied, before exiting the room. She paused just before the door. "Colonel Zechs, Lieutenant Noin, you'll be joining me at the briefing."

"Oh, I'll need to have a short word with Zechs. I'll be sure to send him your way soon."

"Very well, your Excellency. Lieutenant Noin, move it!" Une repeated, raising the volume of her voice.

"Yes ma'am."

When the two men were alone, Treize took a behind the desk, empty except for a notebook computer. He relaxed very slightly in their privacy, putting his hands together over the table. "I now believe you've come to terms with your feelings _vis-à-vis _the Alliance, Lightning Baron. Or should I be calling you Lightning Count?" he asked, referencing the new title conferred on him by the Romefeller Foundation.

"Actually, your Excellency, I was hoping to serve you a little longer," he replied, staring at Treize trough his iconic mask.

"Noting would make me happier, but only if you're certain yourself."

"As it stands, there's only one title I could give myself: Zechs, killer of his own men."

Treize noted his heavy tone. "The Gundams?"

"Yes, sir."

"In that case, do as you wish."

"I'm very grateful for that, sir." Zechs turned to leave the office, heading for the door.

Treize spoke again. "By the way, will you be discarding that mask?" he asked, stopping Zechs. "You've gotten your revenge, it no longer serves a purpose."

"I will still bring my own hatred onto the battlefield. Just think of it as my mark of distinction."

"I admire your devotion as a soldier. It's why I feel as though I can trust you with anything…"

Treize smiled at his back. "…Milliardo Peacecraft."

"That name…" Zechs mumbled. "If you'd please, sir."

Treize rose from his seat. "I'm looking forward to the day you discard that mask."

"Yes sir." Zechs replied, saluting a second later.

"We all carry our demons, Zechs. But you carry more than just that. One of your comrades asked me to remind you of that."

**II**

With about half an hour until 1600 hours, Flight Lieutenant Oswald Walker, Flight Officer Tycho Nichol, Second Lieutenant of Engineering Gunther Mieser and other certified engineers sat in a circle in the large aircraft hangar. A visible cloud of smoke hung over the table, illuminated by a single spotlight.

"Gentlemen, I think that's everything," Nichol said, extinguishing a cigarette in an aluminum ash tray in the middle of the circle of notebook computers.

The others mumbled in agreement, except for Walker, who, as usual, was busy with his paper notebook, jotting down notes from the latest OZ-12SMS 'Taurus' technical data alongside detailed sketch of a Taurus mobile suit.

"Should we go over it again? You know Une's gonna' bust our balls if we get this wrong," Mieser pointed out.

"How would she know?" Nichol fired back. "How would any of us know?"

"Let me rephrases that then: she'll bust our balls if we don't give her what she wants to hear."

Several more puffs of smoke. "Point taken, but any more, and we'll start second-guessing ourselves."

Mieser nodded and Walker twirled his pencil in his hand. He was one of the few engineers not smoking. "Nichol has a point. We've done everything we can, if we made any mistakes it was based on incorrect data."

"I sure hope so," another engineer said.

"Speaking of devil, here she comes," Nichol said, rising from his folding chair. Mieser took out the cigarette he'd just put between his lips and joined the other officers, saluting at Une. Noin followed close behind her.

"If you've got time to smoke, you'd better have finished the analysis," Une said, chiding them.

"Yes, ma'am," Walker said, as she eyed the paper notebook he'd been sketching in. She glanced at the open pages before looking back at him, her hand open. Walker reached for his laptop and ejected the compact disc from the optical drive, presenting it to Une.

Une stared at the disc with her usually cold eyes. "You're dismissed, then."

They clicked their heels. "Yes, ma'am."

Walker quickly took the notebook before Une could look at it again and nodded a greeting at Noin, who nodded back as he dropped his personal computer into his briefcase.

"See you at the briefing, Walker."

He nodded at Nichol as he walked down the hangar, anxious to put some distance between himself and Une. Holding his briefcase in his left hand, he flipped through his paper notebook, before he came to the page bearing sketches and notes on Tallgeese. All the information was based what he'd known at Corsica—the sketch of the Tallgeese even featured its unfinished head compartment, indentical to that of an OZ-06MS 'Leo'.

_Come to think of it, this'll be the first time I've seen Tallgeese first hand since Corsica. It's operational now, and there's a huge amount of data, but I really do need to see it first-hand. _

Flipping through the pages, he came to the hangar's exit and immediately spotted Tallgeese, which was flanked by four OZ-07AMSK command mobile suits belonging to the various flight commanders called to the Luxembourg, including Walker's own.

_I wonder where Noin's is_, he thought as he climbed up the gantry that had been moved back in front of Tallgeese shortly after Treize's arrival. "Mieser, I thought repairs were done yesterday. Are you making adjustments, because the super vernier boosters…"

He looked over the level of the gantry and was so surprised he almost lost his grip on his briefcase. "Dr. Cebotari!"

In Tallgeese' open cockpit sat Dr. Cebotari, the "gravity-defying political officer," as F/O Mazuri had crudely taken to calling her behind her back. While she had both hands on the flight sticks, she wasn't harnessed in, and her bust was a little eye-catching in her attire: an unbuttoned formfitting blazer and short skirt, black like her hair, and a taught white blouse, not tucked in and with the top three or four buttons undone. For a second, Walker thought something was wrong; then he remembered that the doctor had a sort of melancholy about her, even when she appeared pleased, as she was 'playing around' with the mobile suit.

"You're not in uniform," he told her, climbing to the top of the gantry. _Why did I say that? I mean, she's obviously meaning something dressed like that, but I wasn't obligated to _acknowledge _it. What is wrong with me? _

"Should I be?" she asked, in that soft, breathy voice she was known for. It was actually a little difficult to hear her outside, despite having a _mezzo-soprano _voice. Her voice wasn't so soft he couldn't detect her disinterest in his opinion, though.

He walked up to the cockpit, setting his briefcase down on the metal floor beneath him. "That actually doesn't matter, but you shouldn't be in this machine to begin with."

"I wanted to see what it felt like," she told him.

"I see," Walker said, doing his best not to sound annoyed. Hiding negative emotions was one of his strong points. "I did expect you weren't a mobile suit pilot."

She put her hands on the outside walls and pulled herself out of the seat, smiling and closing her eyes. "What gave it away?"

"Is there something I can do for you, Dr. Cebotari?"

"Eva," she said, correcting him. There was something about her body language that seemed to demand attention. Not even in a promiscuous way, but more subtle, but still effective. "I shouldn't have to tell you twice."

Walker watched her pass him, walking up to the guardrail, her eyes still closed and her high heels clicking against the floor. "Twice?"

"When we last spoke."

Walker immediately recalled their last conversation—back on the OZS _Catalonia_, when the doctor had conveyed the information that F/O Otto Richter had died in combat in the Sanc Kingdom. He replayed the whole conversation in his head, just staring into Tallgeese's fuselage. She'd said remarkably little, and it consisted mostly of Walker just staring blankly at her crimson eyes.

"Do you still feel it was futile?"

Eva's voice dragged him back into reality, standing on the gantry in front of Tallgeese. His past words echoed in his head. _"I know 'Grand Slam' was a great success. But it still stands, I'll soon be back in Europe. If I'd been with Tallgeese, even if I hadn't operated it, he wouldn't have died."_

He had stared at her, his eyes widened. _"So why I didn't I join Zechs?"_

"Do you?" Eva asked again, in the present.

"Apparently, I don't have an explanation for everything," he told her, trying to match her calm, controlled tone.

Eva looked at him. With her high heels, they almost stood at the same height. "At least you've learned _something_, Walker."

The enigmatic doctor vanished down the ladder, leaving Walker alone as he'd planned to be, and he climbed into Tallgeese's open cockpit. He subconsciously sniffed the air—absent was the usual human smell, just faint perfume and, even fainter, wool and cotton clothing.

_There might be unresolved issues for this, or some other Freudian explanation, but that woman makes me intensely uncomfortable_, he thought, as he switched on the main computer and sat back in the seat.

**III**

"Dac, you've known the lieutenant for some time now, yes?"

F/O Ali Mazuri and P/O David Bishop stood in the front rows in the main hangar. As per the usual custom, during these sort of massive briefings, junior officers took the front rows while senior officers stood in the back. It'd been done this way back in the days of the _Speciali_, General Catalonia claimed it encouraged junior officers to voice their concerns or questions, while senior officers could always say anything that needed to be said afterwards.

A technician was still setting up the high-powered projector that was going to broadcast onto the empty back wall of the hangar, a convenient improvised screen.

"Yeah, almost three years now, I think."

"I heard Walker has a sister in OZ as well. An attaché for the Space Forces or something like that," Mazuri whispered to him.

"I don't know what an 'attaché' is, but yeah, Aretha Walker. I met her once or twice."

Mazuri sighed. "That's got to be tough for him."

"What makes you say that?"

Mazuri glanced at him. "You know the situation in space is a lot more tenuous than on Earth, right? Besides _Barge_, outer space is Alliance territory. And then there's the Gundams. Space is still a theater of warfare OZ could lose."

Bishop grimaced. "I hadn't thought of that."

"I wonder if that's what Dr. Eva told Walker when we returned from 'Grand Slam' that left him so disheartened, something about his sister in space. I mean, the man has half-kill credit for an Alliance space cruiser. He should have been lighter than air." He sighed. "Then again, with Walker, it seems hard to tell. He always has that same expression on."

"Expression," Dac echoed quietly. "Dr. Eva?" he then asked, a little confused.

Mazuri stared at him incredulously. "Oh, come on, Davy-boy. Dr. Eva? The political officer?"

Dac kept staring.

"Breathy voice? Skin like a china plate? Gravity-defying breasts? Is any of this ringing a bell?" Mazuri asked, quietly shouting at his comrade.

"Oooohhh..._that _political officer, Dr. Eva."

Mazuri rolled his eyes so hard they nearly popped out of his head. F/O Kaneshiro Kanna had quietly stood in the row to his right. "Don't you have a sister too, Dac?"

Both Mazuri and Bishop turned to her, surprised. Mazuri felt it was best to change the subject. "You have a sister too, Bishop?"

Dac frowned again, looking a little self-defensive. "Sure I have a sister. What of it?"

"I saw your record," Kanna said, looking forward. "She's your fraternal twin."

She cocked her head a little. "Is that the right English word? 'Fraternal'?"

"You have a twin sister?" Mazuri asked, again.

"What of it?" Dac snapped back, now quietly yelling.

As they bickered, Walker stood in the back row with the other flight lieutenants and squadron commanders, not far from the Lightning Count. He felt he'd managed to wipe any expression he had of discontent from his face. The boom lift Lady Une was riding in, intended for aircraft maintenance, shifted downwards in front of the improvised screen, indicating that the briefing was about to begin.

Out of the corner of his eye, Walker spotted F/L Ogasawara, also in full uniform, walk up next to him and nod a casual greeting. He nodded back discreetly.

Une's voice boomed through the tiny microphone she was wearing, as the briefing began. An image of the new OZ-12SMS 'Taurus' mobile suits was projected behind her. "Our next operation involves transporting the new Taurus mobile suits to our Siberian Base, where our new mobility software will be integrated."

_Mobility software? That must be the new military artificial intelligence_, Walker thought. Of all the upgrades that made the Taurus a true second-generation mobile suit, the new AI operational software—dubbed "mobile doll" system—was the one he was least familiar with, as he wasn't a software engineer.

"Recent events have warranted a lack of confidence in the facilities and security at the Lake Victoria Academy, resulting in this shift," Une continued.

_Lake Victoria used to be the final integration site for the new Taurus. But then there was the Nightmare._

"The new Taurus units will be transported across the Arabian Peninsula, guarded heavily by the North African Air Army. Once safely in the Union, they'll be transferred to local OZ units. Now, while there haven't been any real threats yet, we're planning for all contingencies. We've leaked a false transport plan as a decoy," she explained, as the projection changed to several strategic airlifters in midflight. "We won't let the enemy interfere so easily this time."

There was some mumbling in the front rows. "Our enemy? You mean the Gundams?"

Une smirked. "The Gundams have struck every single operation carried out by OZ that they've been able to. I don't expect this to be an exception." The image behind her changed to a projection of the Eurasian continent, highlighting the transport route and major OZ bases. "So long as I'm in command, there will be no such interference."

"Traveling through the Siberia Military District, they pass through territory directly administrated by OZ. Not even the Gundams can strike with impunity in the Sakha Republic," Zechs observed, referring to the autonomous republic within the Eurasian Union.

"No, we want them to come. I consider annihilating the Gundams a major part of this plan. The defeats faced by the Alliance military were the results of poor intelligence combined with incompetent leadership in the field. Now, OZ will operate with the best intelligence at its disposal. I plan to give a lesson how the correct way to eradicate the Gundams."

Zechs had no response. Walker wasn't impressed, though he was in no place to show it. _Assuming out data interpretation is right, anyway._

"It might not come to much use, but let me provide some basic information. Since the beginning of Operation 'Meteor', or Operation M as some refer to it, we've confirmed five distinct Gundams deployed across the Earth. Their similarities aside, it's their differences which must dictate our responses to them in combat from now on. Treating the Gundams as identical threats was the Alliance's first mistake."

Both video footage and rendered schematics of a Gundam appeared behind her. "We'll refer to the mobile suit that fell over the Pacific Ocean as Gundam Zero-One. Its variable geometry allows it to perform much as a large aircraft. Once located, we'll lure it to an Aries air zone and shoot it down. Without its flight capability, we can overcome it in a protracted battle."

_What a great time to be an Aries pilot, _Noin thought sarcastically.

"Next, Gundam Zero-Two. Records sealed by the Alliance Space Forces reveal that it was actually encountered on the sixth of April, just before Operation M, by Pioneer Leos at MO-II. MO-II was subsequently abandoned."

A schematic diagram of Gundam-02, with its distinctive beam "scythe", was replaced by footage of it attacking an Alliance warship. "Zero-Two's onboard equipment allow it retain a very small radar signature."

The image changed. "Meanwhile, with the assault unit, Gundam Zero-Three, the strategy is to force it to expend all of its ordnance as quickly as possible. This _is _true for all of them, but no one mobile suit excels in organized battle. Zero-Three has few if any anti-mobile melee weapons, and thus, could be engaged both by Leo and Aries units under those circumstances."

The image changed again and Walker clenched his fist. It was footage of the Gundam that tore through Corsica and the Middle East Air Army, alongside the Maganac Corps.

"The unit that appeared in the Arabian Peninsula in league with the Maganac Corps is Gundam Zero-Four. Zero-Four is also a close-range warfare type, though we believe it does have longer range than Zero-Two."

The image changed again. "As for final unit, Zero-Five, make sure to avoid direct combat wherever possible. With the other Gundams in mind, stop it in its footstep and barrage it until it's destroyed. Be extremely cautious of the firepower in its left arm."

Walker silently fumed, his right hand still clenched. _Gundam-04, I'll remember that. And I bet right now, those damn pilots are doing the same thing, plotting their strikes against the convoys or anything else they can find. _

"That concludes my briefing. I ask that the respective commanders mobilize their units at the bases along the route, and remain on full-alert."

"Yes, ma'am!" the officers in the gallery announced. Une's boom lift moved forward before stopping above the middle rows.

"Colonel Zechs, I was hoping you'd take on the task of fighting Zero-One in the Tallgeese, one-on-one. What do you think?"

Noin scoffed. "You can't seriously expect him to go alone! I'd be his backup."

"But Noin…"

"There are still Aries operational at Lake Victoria. Colonel, I request orders to command a unit for that assignment."

"Lieutenant _Noin_, I'm assigning _you _to the General Staff at Headquarters."

"Oh boy," Dac whispered, looking over his shoulder.

Noin looked stunned. "…but why?"

"You'll be assisting me directly, do you have a problem with that?"

"…no, ma'am."

"Colonel Zechs previously suffered a serious defeat at the hands of Zero-One. Now that he has the Tallgeese, I thought this might be the ideal opportunity to get his revenge," Une said, sounding a little gleeful.

"Very convenient. Any further defeat would be his own fault," Noin mumbled back.

"Noin, it suits me just fine. Actually, I was hoping you'd be assigned to the General Staff."

"Colonel?"

"In the future, we'll need quick, accurate information. I'll be counting on you there."

_Then they shouldn't be sending Noin_, Walker thought, allowing himself to roll his eyes. Kanna looked at him, a little confused at his sudden emotional response.

"Sir, count on me then."

Une raised her voice again. "Commence operations, you're all dismissed!"

The officers began to disperse, and Zechs and Noin exchanged some uncharacteristically quiet words before splitting in different directions. Walker watched the two leave, as Une lowered the boom lift even further, directly above them.

"Lieutenant Walker!"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, turning around and standing at attention.

"Assuming your information is correct, it was better than I was expecting. Keep it up."

_I'll assume this is Une's version of a compliment. _"Thank you, Lieutenant Colonel."

"One last thing: his Excellency wants to speak with you personally, concerning some future development projects. I suggest you _get moving_."

Walker saluted swiftly. He knew better than to question Une, and he would have done it anyway. "Yes, ma'am, if there's nothing else…"

"There isn't, though I'd like to discuss some things with Lieutenant Ogasawara."

Walker lowered his arm and took off. _She really likes that boom lift_, he thought as he headed for the door. _God help us all if Une ever finds a portable cherry picker for her own use. _

"I suppose there's such a thing as _too _obedient," Une mumbled as Walker departed. "Lieutenant Ogasawara?"

"Yes, ma'am?" Ogasawara said, standing at attention. Boom lift aside, she was actually a good ten centimeters taller than Une.

"His Excellency and the General Staff have both agreed with your report. Personally, I see no reason why we shouldn't restore the elite Special Recon Battalion as a unit within OZ, given that outstanding performance of its members during 'Daybreak'. Have your own recon team finalized and sent to me for approval."

"Yes, ma'am."

_It's about time some 'outstanding' soldiers kept acting like soldiers. _She lowered the boom lift to just over the ground and climbed out. "We'll need units of the Special Recon Battalion on both Earth and Space soon, so I suggest you familiarize yourself with the new Taurus mobile suit immediately."

"Of course, ma'am," Ogasawara responded. She softened her voice. "If I may ask, who will be the battalion commander?"

She smiled. _Of course, the original Special Recon Battalion commander was Colonel Castillo. _"Castillo was an excellent soldier, but he never joined the Specials. And his 'conscious' apparently forced him to resign after 'Daybreak'. She raised an eyebrow. "Jockeying for promotion, Ogasawara?"

She made an indignant expression, cocking her head looking away, to Une's delight. "No, ma'am."

**IV**

"Otto Richter, died, Nineteenth of May, After Colony One-Nine-Five. Posthumously promoted to the rank of Flight Lieutenant, buried with full military honors in Alliance Military Cemetery in North Jutlandic Island in Sanc Kingdom."

Treize put down the document he was reading and turned to Walker.

"Did you know Otto well?"

"Not as well as the Lightning Count, your Excellency," Walker admitted truthfully. "I was not one of his countrymen. But it's very unfortunate what happened."

Treize turned to the window, closing his eyes and smiled slightly. "Not entirely. Otto gave his life for the kingdom he loved and the man he considered his rightful king. A warrior couldn't ask for a better death."

Walker said nothing, keeping his hands behind his back.

"Perhaps it was Otto's time to die. If it was, then he was blessed." He turned to Walker. "But if it wasn't, it would be a travesty. For Otto's immortal soul, we can only ensure that the cause he sacrificed for endures. Though we cannot know that for certain, now."

_Mr. Treize always had a way of seeing both sides of any matter. _"I agree completely, sir."

Treize sat down behind the desk. "Come, Walker. I called you here for more than remembering a fallen comrade." He unfolded the notebook computer and turned it on, opening a military design application.

Walker stood on the left side of the desk. _OZ-13MS 'Epyon'. _"You're keeping the name, sir."

"I know 'Epyon' was just name for the proof-of-concept design, but since your time at New Castle, I felt it was only fitting your signature be attached to this machine in the event of its completion."

"I'm sure the other engineers had a better name for it…"

"Perhaps, Walker, but you _have _worked more on the design than the rest of the engineers combined," Treize told him, almost smirking.

Walker sighed. "So I am the only project designer who is aware of what my efforts are being used for. That does explain some things, sir."

"Is that a problem, Walker?"

"No, sir," he said quickly. "Actually, I completely understand the desire for secrecy. That being said, my area of expertise is limited to mobile suit design, primarily propulsion and drive systems. More access to power plant and weapons engineer really would speed up the process."

"I understand your concerns, but for the time being, don't worry yourself with them." Treize scrolled through the application before closing it and ejecting a flash memory card, which he presented to Walker. "With the Epyon data, I've included a complete readout on the new Taurus. I know that you weren't involved in its development, but I'll arrange it so that you have plenty of access to the new machines in the near future. After that, I'll be counting on your experience."

Walker nodded, holding the small memory card. "And Tallgeese, sir?"

"That's Zechs' area. If we're fortunate, we've learned all we can from Tallgeese."

Walker looked at Treize. _What does he mean by that? _He decided not to dwell on it. "And what about the security concerns?"

Treize smiled again. "Holding you prisoner in New Castle in Ansembourg wasn't entirely reasonable. You're a soldier, after all. At the very least, I would be depriving you of your livelihood. Just exercise your best judgment, and don't let Lady Une know."

Walker couldn't tell if Treize was joking or not, so he just smiled back a little. "I'll do just that, sir."

"I'm afraid you won't be able to write your thesis on it for the time being."

That _was _a joke, even though it was still literally true, so Walker smiled more. "Of course, your Excellency."

"Though with that in mind, I have something else for you," Treize said, opening a drawer and taking out a small wooden display box. He opened the lid and pushed it across the desk to Walker. "I haven't used in it in some time, and just as I received it, I thought it should go to someone who would use it."

Walker knelt and reached into the wooden box. Inside was a polished mobile suit cockpit pennant, with the simple design of OZ's highest emblem, two stylized letters, and writing in a language he did not immediately recognize. He held it carefully in one gloved hand, watching his own reflection go by as he spun it.

"Thank you, sir."

Treize stood up and Walker immediately saluted. "Good luck, Walker. I look forward to your progress. You've been detained long enough, though I would ask you to meet with the good doctor concerning another matter."

The smile promptly vanished from Walker's face. "Thank you, your Excellency," he said as he excused himself from the room, leaving Treize alone in the office.

OZ's commander-in-chief sat back down in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, and glanced out the window at Tallgeese. Despite what he'd said to Une, this was not his first time seeing OZ's prototype in person. Closing his eyes, he went back in time, twelve years, when he'd been a cadet pilot officer in the Alliance _Speciali_.

It was a better time in some respects. Life was a little less complicated. Catalonia was the respected commandant of the Special Mobile Suit Troops, the only _Speciali _to wear the uniform of a brigadier general. He'd later be promoted, and remain the only general officer in the Alliance Specials. Catalonia was one of the finest men Treize had ever known, and if it were up to him personally—and not a matter of politics or philosophy—he'd still be the commander-in-chief of OZ.

It was that year, AC 183, when he'd first seen Tallgeese, in storage at the Corsica Works.

_"Given this machine's performance, I don't think it can be used to full effect on the battlefield." _

He'd told that to a senior engineer. It was the only time they'd met, and he only knew that he was on the original Tallgeese team, and had no part in development of the Leo. _What was his name? Michael…something. _

_"This machine alone could fight a thousand enemy troops."_

_"Well, in essence, a mobile suit is intended for that type of asymmetrical warfare." _That's what he'd told him

_"I understand," _Treize told him. Back then, he was still young, still learning. _What the battlefield needs isn't a dysfunctional battalion of soldiers, but instead, just one warrior above them all, _is what he'd told himself.

_I was young. And more than a little bit foolish_, Treize thought, with a smile. _Hardly unexpected, when you consider it. _

He looked at Tallgeese again. _And a dozen years later, Walker found you, Tallgeese. And he gave you to that one warrior. _

**V**

Eva didn't care for Acht. Not at all.

Inspector Jonas Acht was twice her age, perhaps a little more. He'd been a commissioned officer in the Alliance Army before she'd learned to read. He had held the rank of major in the defunct-Western European Air Army, commanding _Jagdstaffeln 88_, one of the few elite Aries squadrons not part of the Special Mobile Suit Troops.

_Jagdstaffeln 88 might still exist, but he shouldn't still have a career. Lucky for him, he was such a Romefeller stooge_, Eva thought, with one eye closed. Out of the other, she peered at Acht as he consulted his notebooks.

Acht had been a political officer for the Romefeller Foundation, charged with ensuring the Foundation's interests were remembered by the Alliance armed forces, for at least ten years. There were thousands of 'inspectors' like Acht, most of whom had died during 'Daybreak', wiped out along with the Alliance military units they'd been posted to.

Acht was a rather ridiculous-looking man, conspicuously dressed in a black overcoat, and dark three-piece suit and a top hat that completed the ensemble. Despite his shady appearance, Acht had actually had the good sense to behave himself and treat the much younger but equally-ranked Eva with the respect due to her. That didn't really change Eva's low opinion of the middle-aged man though.

"Oh, there's your man now, Bonaparte," Acht said,

Acht was addressing Alphonse Bonoparte, ex-brigadier general of the Alliance Army Mobile Suit Troops, and the commander of the last mobile suit companies charged with guarding the No. 12 Mobile Suit Factory at the Corsica Works before the UESA's collapse. He sat in the back seat of the 4x4 jeep driven by Acht.

Flight Lieutenant emerged among a few officers enjoying a smoking break, and spotted Bonaparte almost immediately. The ex-Alliance general climbed out of the jeep approached Walker, who seemed unsure how to respond.

"Now what?" Acht asked Eva, who sat in the front passenger seat.

"How would I know?" she countered quietly.

"Lieutenant, you mind if we speak in private?" Bonaparte asked, his voice still as distinctive and hoarse as Walker remembered it.

"Of course..."

The two men walked along the hangar away from the other officers. Bonaparte removed the brown flat cap from his head, holding it behind his back. Despite his different attire—he wore a summer coat, slacks, a vest and a dark green tie—Walker had recognized him immediately thanks to his mustache and beard, though they were whiter than he remembered.

"Before you ask, I'm doing well. I resigned my commission after Corsica…" he told him, gruffly. "…when Luxembourg announced they were going to divide the Middle Eastern Air Army between the different reserve armies in Europe."

"I see, sir," Walker said.

"When OZ orchestrated its coup, I got the call. By the time I made my decision, your comrades had already succeeded," he told him sharply.

"Are you on any of the interest lists?"

"The suspected persons list? No," he countered. "I'm not even on OZ's radar. Just one of the thousands of nameless ex-generals who won't fight anymore."

Walker nodded. He wasn't sure what to say to an Alliance brigadier general who had resigned on his behalf before 'Daybreak'. "How is civilian life treating you?"

"Not that badly. Lot of time to spend with my grandchildren, they're young enough that anything entertains them. I suppose I have no right to complain when a hundred-thousand lieutenants, captains and majors are going to either starve to death or resort to banditry."

_OZ is not the formal successor to the Alliance, _Walker thought. _It's not our responsibility to ensure sergeants and captains get their pensions. That's up to the national governments now. _"Hopefully, there's enough goodwill in the countries on Earth to ensure their livelihood."

Bonaparte rolled his eyes and spat back a coarse response. "Don't play the part of fool, Walker, it doesn't serve you well. Tell me, was it worth it? Right now, outer space is in open warfare. Xinjiang, Utah, Afghanistan, Haiti, they've all become Alliance fiefdoms!"

"And whose fault is that?" Walker asked.

Bonaparte stared at him and sighed. "Well put," he told him gruffly. The two turned the corner around a hangar. "I didn't come here to argue politics with you, Walker."

"I didn't think so, sir."

Bonaparte stopped, taking a deep breath. "Thank you, Walker, for what you did at Corsica. For saving the lives of more than seventy Alliance officers and soldiers, and one brigadier general."

He heaved a sigh. "There, I've said it."

"Well, thank you, sir," Walker told him, less dramatically.

"For what?"

"For ensuring that the research data survived the Gundams' attack."

"What is it with you Zodiacs and your precious research data?" Bonaparte asked incredulously. "Were you really willing to give your life for some…data?"

"Among other things, yes, sir," Walker told him truthfully.

The two men stared at each other for a few seconds longer. "Now what will we do?" Bonaparte asked, looking away.

"I'm not sure myself, sir. The future's still going to be difficult."

"Of course. Despite your politics, Walker, you have an uncanny knack for being right." Bonaparte turned back to Walker to see the younger man holding a hand out, and he shook it.

"Thank you for the vote of confidence, Brigadier General…"

"Not anymore. Never again," Bonaparte told him hoarsely, shaking his hand.

"…for your vote of confidence, Citizen Bonaparte," Walker finished. He put his hand behind his back.

Bonaparte replaced his cap. "Are you going to space, Lieutenant?"

"Eventually, I may, sir."

"Well, when you do, teach those fools who'd dare be kingmakers up there a lesson or two. And kill those goddamn Gundams already!" Bonaparte shouted, throwing his hands up into the air.

He took one last look at Walker. "Remember, son, this isn't some aristocratic game. Whether you admit it or not, you've inherited the defense of Earth from the Alliance. You fail, and we'll all suffer for it."

Walker watched Bonaparte slowly make his way back to the jeep, wondering just how healthy Bonaparte actually was. Still, he made his point, and Walker wasn't about to forget it. He found his Armstrong motorcycle, donned his goggles and rode back to the dorms.

**VI**

Kanna was leaning with her back against the ornate mahogany wooden railing, looking over her shoulder at the grand staircase from the lobby into the officer's barracks. When she spotted F/L Walker passing through the lobby and climbing up the stairs, she spat out the toothpick in her mouth and stood at attention.

"Lieutenant!"

He looked up. "'Afternoon, Kanna."

In the common area on the second floor, A. Mazuri was getting on Dac's nerves.

"I'm your comrade, we're in the same squadron. What's the big deal?" Mazuri asked.

"Why do you _care_?" Dac countered angrily, pushing an ottoman next to the couch with his feet.

"Well, we should get to know each other. It's called 'being friendly', surely you're familiar with this concept?"

Dac groaned loudly as Walker entered, followed by Kanna, who stood straight after slouching to clear the doorframe.

"Flight Lieutenant," Mazuri said, standing at ease. Dac acknowledged him with a gesture from the couch. Kanna gave them both an almost comically distasteful look.

"Orders come in, Walker?" Dac asked.

"Not yet. Don't let me interrupt you two," he said, scanning the room rapidly and practically sliding along the wall into a writing desk against the wall facing the window in the common area, taking some sheets of paper in one hand and a pen in the other. He methodically arranged them on the desk, removed his folding cap, then took the pen.

"So what's she like?" Mazuri asked, not missing a beat.

Dac groaned again. "God, I can only imagine what Kenyan military intelligence must be like. She's _like me_, all right? She's my twin. Imagine me with breasts," he snapped at him, fishing the television remote out between the couch cushions.

Mazuri raised an eyebrow, as Dac leaned forward and clicked the television on. "And braids. Lots of braids, with beads."

"A blonde hippie chick?" Mazuri offered.

Dac stared at him suspiciously. "How did you know?"

Kanna smiled apologetically at Walker and gestured with her hands at her two comrades, as Walker began writing with the pen, apparently not responding.

The room grew quiet briefly, as the other three looked at the ranking officer as he scribbled away.

"What are you up to, Walker?"

"Something overdue for my own sister," he admitted. "Speaking of which, Dac, next time you call your sister, please give her my regards."

Walker continued scribbling away on the desk, leaving the other three to stare at the back of his head. After a minute, Mazuri broke the silence. "What was that about. You know Walker's sister, Walker knows yours?"

Dac looked at Mazuri with a face bearing a surprising amount of disgust.

"What did I say?" Mazuri asked, sounding genuinely surprised, while Kanna just stared at them, confused.

**VII**

F/L Ogasawara entered the Diekirch Airbase command-and-control room, now in use by part of OZ's General Staff, where she approached Lieutenant Colonel Une and saluted her.

"Ogasawara, you're here. I take it you've drafted your battle plan for the operation?"

"Yes, ma'am." Ogasawara presented her with a folder. "These are the units I'm requesting."

"You'll get all the units you need," Une said, taking the folder and setting it on a nearby console. She opened the folder, looked at the contents for a second before signing them with a pen. She closed the folder and held it in an extended arm in Ogasawara's direction. The F/L glanced left and right, before reaching forward and taking the folder.

"Thank you. The First Recon Battalion is still extremely under…strength…" Ogasawara began, referencing the new name of the Alliance's Special Mobile Suit Recon Battalion. Une stood up and wandered back to the the large hemispherical display in the middle of the room.

"Don't bore me with the details, Lieutenant. Just _make it work_."

"Yes…ma'am." _I don't suppose you're going to resolve the battalion's strength issues. _Ogasawara turned to see Lieutenant Noin taking a seat at one of the computer stations.

"Ogasawara, if there's nothing else, I suggest you get your mobile suits on a carrier and _go_."

Ogasawara saluted promptly, spun on one boot and exited the command-and-control room, as Noin watched her enviously.

_**Author's Notes:**_

_As you probably know, _Gundam Wing _has a lot of narration, both from the principal narrator, and from the internal and external dialog of various characters. I'd like to imagine _Soldier of OZ _plays out something like the series does, albeit with different sensibilities—I'll leave it to the reader to imagine which sections are being read out by an all-knowing, omniscient narrator. _

_Additionally, if you read Chapter 7 (part 8) before 5-7-12, you may want to read the fifth section again—I made corrections concerning the order of events (the fall of the Sanc Kingdom and Otto's death, after Zech's revenge in the Luxembourg siege, not the other way around), and added a scene with Walker and Zechs to help explain. It's not too shabby, if I may say so myself. The final section is also slightly modified to explain that Luxembourg fell very shortly after Daybreak began. _

_Likewise, I've added a bit of 'narration' to the Chapter 1 (not the prologue), embracing the sheer narration-ness of _Wing. _With all these modifications, I'm not certain when the next chapter will be uploaded, this one took longer than expected (finished grading final exams, whew), but I really suspect the 'Losers' manga will chance the rather crucial scene in the next episode. Namely, just like Darlian's death was modified (and improved to simply make more sense), I suspect Une's use of the Alliance missile batteries will be different too. _

_Whatever the case, look forward to more highspeed Aries action!_

_Last thoughts: does this the final scene pass the Bechdel Test? I think so! _


	11. Une's Gambit

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 11 **– Une's Gambit****

_9 June, AC 195_

Space Fortress _Barge. _Built using the same techniques employed in the construction of Earth's numerous Stanford 'Island Two' layout space colonies, but on a smaller scale more practical towards military purposes. It had been constructed decades earlier, built around a pair of powerful beam cannons, the largest in all of Earth-Sphere, on either end of its central axis.

The space around the Alliance's colossal orbital fortress _Barge _was anything but empty. Surrounded by thick minefields and an elaborate perimeter, everything was done to ensure that, in the chaos following 'Daybreak', the Alliance Space Forces could retain this, the farthest inwards of its major strong points in the Earth-Sphere. Even then, there were multiple problems the Alliance could not remedy: perhaps the most problematic being the skeleton crew left on _Barge _since shortly after its completion decades earlier.

"What the hell are they planning? They've avoided our perimeter defenses and the minefields, but they most know they're within range of of the main cannon. What's wrong with them?"

"They can't avoid every blind spot, sir."

"Then why would they chose this one?" the brigadier general on duty asked, his voice betraying his own fears. "...unless...?"

"Enemy Leo squadron, mark-three-two, has surrounded us within the perimeter!" The monitor demonstrated that the squadron, designated with the Roman numeral 'V', had split into six flights and was holding just past the perimeter. "Affiliation confirmed: they're the 109th Special Squadron, Brickman's!"

"Son of a bitch! Hurry with the main gun!" he commanded. _  
><em>

"_Mr. Clark, sir! They're arming the main__ cannon!" _

Flight Officer Trant Clark, charged with a flight of six mobile suits and in overall command of the 109th, was positioned just behind his wingman. Their OZ-06SMS 'Space Leos', in identical blue Speciali livery and armed with the same beam rifles, stayed in a tight formation.

"_No they won't!_"

_"What?_"

Inside his cockpit, Trant smirked. "My brother, Seis Clark, was a lead designer for the fortress. Furthermore..."

"_Furthermore what, sir?_"

"You know Artemis Sedici's boy? The Space Forces staff officer? He's our infiltrator." Trant was grinning ear to ear by now; he'd known Sedici since childhood, and even he hadn't made it into the Specials, he was still hard-nosed.

"Sir? Sir!" one of the officer's in _Barge_'s overbridge asked from his console, clearly panicking.

"Why isn't the cannon firing?" the brigadier general asked.

"The circuit in the first stage accelerator has been disconnected!" the officer mumbled, pointing absently at his display.

"H-How?"

"I-I don't know, sir! We're doing everything we can to determine how this happened, but...as it stands, the main cannon isn't operational!"

"...and that is why our victory is certain," Trant mumbled inside his helmet, as the Leos swept forward, their vernier packs lit up like beacons against the starlight.

Back on Earth, Inspector Jonas Acht stared at a display screen in the command-and-control room at Diekirch, standing directly behind a communications operator.

"Good, now bring up the commanders in the Recon Battalion."

The operator nodded, tapped at his keyboard, and the screen changed. Act adjusted his round-framed glasses and glanced over it.

**F/L Ogasawara E.**

**F/L C. Walker**

**F/O P. Wilson**

**F/L D. Chernenko**

**F/L G. Fischer**

**F/O K. Patel**

**F/L Kim. H**

Their names were followed by their serial numbers. Acht turned back to the operator.

"And you're sure there's no unit battalion commander?"

"No, sir. Flight Lieutenant…Ogasa-wara…is provisional commander."

"Convenient for her, I suppose," Acht mumbled.

"Inspector, sir, there's a call for you in telecoms. Says its high priority," an officer behind him announced.

Acht nodded, collecting his top hat and exited the room, leaving Dr. Eva Cebotari as the remaining political officer. She watched him leave with a look of considerable distaste.

On the observatory level of the control tower, directly above the control center, Lieutenant Colonel Une stood looking out over the runways at Diekirch, when Flight Lieutenant Lucrezia Noin approached her from behind. "Lady Une, we're ready to begin."

"Good."

The two women took the short walk to the lift that would bring them back down to the command center.

Standing behind Une, Noin tilted her head a little bit, before finally opting to speak. "I spoke to Inspector Acht earlier…"

"Another mistake, Lieutenant," Une smirked.

"…and he mentioned he had reservations at sending the Recon Battalion out without a battalion commander. I can see his point."

"First Recon Battalion's job is to _assist _Colonel Zechs when the Gundams show up. If Ogasawara can do _that_, she's all the commander the battalion needs," Une told Noin sharply, her voice rather callous.

**II**

Flight Lieutenant Walker stood in the main hold of the Antonov airborne carrier. Instead of the usual fine-tuning, calibrations, and final checks, he was reviewing the operational battle plan.

"Operation 'Amur', the escorting of the delivery of the first fourteen Taurus mobile suit teams to the Siberian Cosmodrome at Lake Baikal," he mumbled, hunched over a paper map unfolded over the workstation. "We can't do this every time we want to reinforce our assets in outer space, it'd be insane. Who was commanding the units at the land route?"

He was speaking with Dmitry Alexandrovich Chernenko, a Ukrainian flight lieutenant with curly hazel hair underneath his folding cap and a very visible, very painful-looking scar extending up the right corner of his mouth marring his otherwise handsome features. Chernenko donned a pair of reading glasses and looked over another piece of paper.

"That…would be Squadron Commanders Krist and Donovan in the Thirteenth Guards, along with an Aries Wing, the…Fourth Division."

"Why am I not surprised?" Walker asked. 'Guards' was something OZ was apparently borrowing from the Eurasians, a useful way of distinguishing between mobile suit divisions and battalions equipped with Leos that were staffed by ex-_Speciali_, versus the new units created since Daybreak. The same designation might extend to Aries, if it weren't for there were so few new Aries divisions.

"Trapped on the ground with all the Gundams? I don't envy them."

"Don't be too pleased, I'm sure we'll be getting ground interference from at least one additional Gundam."

"'Interference'? Is that what we're calling it now?" Chernenko asked. Like Walker and his North American accent, Chernenko had an Eastern European one that occasionally entered his English. He frowned as Walker flipped between maps. "Do you really think we'll have more than one Gundam?"

"That's what I'm planning for," Walker told him, as he found the map he wanted and spread it across the surface.

"Great."

"_Krasiva,_" he told Walker sarcastically. "Excuse me while I go write my will, _Osvaldovych_."

Walker nodded, still staring intently at the maps of Sakha Republic, as Chernenko walked along the gangplank. The Sakha Republic, a huge Siberian country with a population under ten million, was one of the numerous republics in the Eurasian Union. Unlike the Russian Republic that surrounded it, though, it had few permanent military forces and contributed little to the Union military strength overall. OZ had a treaty with the Eurasian government that gave it overriding military authority for the republic, aside from local air defense bases and the small Union military presence. For this arrangement, OZ got priority access at Baikal Cosmodrome, while the actual Eurasian Red Army was allowed to field a certain number of mobile suits, making them a post-Alliance mobile suit-power. They'd be relocated to Sakha as well, to face the Gundams; on the map, OZ units were marked in dark blue while Eurasian units were marked in dark red.

_The airborne route goes through the Sakha Republic, while the land route ends at Baikonur in Kazakhstan. The Red Army better be ready, this is only going to end violently. Or maybe my first encounter with the Gundams is just leaving me absolutely terrified and affecting my judgment. _He stood up in front of the maps. _That's also a possibility. _

"_F/L Walker, call for you from the lead aircraft._"

"Acknowledged, I'll take it now," he said.

There was an audio-video call from the lead aircraft, Zech Merquise's supersonic, transorbital mobile suit carrier. Unlike the converted Antonov strategic airlifters or the Tupolev supersonic passenger liners, Zech's carrier was a rarer model, smaller, faster, and mounting a pair of beam cannons.

He'd expected Zechs, but was quickly proven wrong: leaning over a console, handset in her hand, was Ogasawara. As usual, her previously immaculate hunter green tunic double-breasted jacket was tied around her waist and she wore a low-cut black crop top.

_Something's different about her. _"Commander, go ahead."

At the back of the extended flight deck, behind the seat occupied by Zechs Merquise, Ogasawara leaned over the monitor along the communications suite, her right elbow propped against the console just over her head and her left arm behind her, anxiously tapping the small of her back. Ogasawara seemed tall enough that she had to lean at a sharp angle to keep at eye level with the display monitor if she were to keep her legs rigid. "Walker, we're about three hours from Mirny AFB. You're still expecting the Gundams to strike within the Sakha Republic?"

"_Yes, ma'am._" Walker's voice came back tinny and almost comical.

"What's your threat analysis?"

"_I'm expecting two Gundams, Zero-One and Zero-Three. No supporting forces._"

"Zero-One was a given, and the basis for this whole operation," Ogasawara mumbled to herself. "But Zero-Three?"

"_It might be ground-confined, but it's the only other Gundam with sufficient long-range firepower to strike the carriers both on approach and after takeoff. Zero-Two and Zero-Four would have to break through the Eurasian perimeter just to make it to the airbase. Even a Gundam would have trouble covering that much territory in that length of time. There's also the remote possibility the Gundams don't want fight ninety-thousand soldiers from their Far Eastern Military District, as well as OZ._"

"Which one do you expect first?"

"_Zero-Three, followed by Zero-One. Some sort of aerial insertion, almost certainly. I do think Colonel Une was correct in this regard, and that the pilot will take the bait. I'll send expected engagement zones over the datalink."_

"Affirmative, Walker. Alert me of any developments."

"Yes, ma'am." Walker saluted the screen quickly before it disconnected and he let himself frown. _Right. She didn't have that jewelry before, did she? That was it. _He mentally frowned at himself as he stood up and stretched his arms. _I really do hope my failure to notice that wasn't because of her cleavage. I'm beginning to think poorly of myself. _

Ogasawara stared at the OZ two-letter insignia on the screen in front of her, tapping the small of her back for a few more seconds before she stood up and hanged up the handset.

"Colonel?"

"Relax yourself, Lieutenant," Zechs told her, glancing back at her. "Walker's no master tactician, but he hasn't been wrong with the Gundams yet. If he thinks Une's going to be prove right, she just might be."

Zechs stretched his arms in his seat, before crossing them again. "In the meantime, keep your cool. Have your Recon Battalion and the supporting forces ready to deal with Zero-Three. And I'll deal with Zero-One."

Crossing her arms, Emi leaned against the console. She propped her left foot against the console and bit down on her left thumbnail.

"_Relax_, Lieutenant," Zechs repeated. Ogasawara glanced at the Lightning Count and promptly threw herself into the couch facing the communications suite, resting her head on her hands. Zechs chuckled before turning back to the pilot and copilot at the front of the flight deck. "You're starting to make _me _nervous."

"I _am _relaxing, Lighting Count," she told him, playing with the smooth red jewel pendant hanging on a thin platinum chain around her neck. She had two more identical jewels, one hanging from either ear. Their smooth, polished surfaces felt soothing on her fingerless gloves, something to try and take her mind of what was about to happen.

**III**

"_Taich__ō!_ I finished all the equipment checks."

Walker turned to see F/L Kaneshiro waving at him from the cockpit of her OZ-07AMS 'Aries', a red color pencil in his mouth.

"Thank you, Kanna. That should be everything, you might want to get some shuteye," he told her, the pencil rising and falling with each syllable.

"No thanks, Taichō, I'm a little too psyched for that," she said, flexing her muscular arms over her head, arching her back left and right. She had muscular but dense arms—she didn't have that bodybuilder look that _particularly _muscular woman got, but instead reminded Walker of what a 'female' rather than 'male' mobile suit might look like, if they'd built it to be only two meters tall: tall and narrow.

She picked up her double-breasted uniform jacket and her sidearm, safely in its holster, and walked over to Walker and his maps.

"What's this for?" she said. Walker had drawn red lines all across the topographical maps, then crossed them all out hastily.

"I was thinking about calling in more support from the Eurasian Far East Military District." He put a hand against his head. "That's the administrative division of the military of the Eurasian Union, not one of ours. They've got divisions in this area, I thought maybe we could surround a Gundam once on the ground and obliterate it. The Eurasians have great artillery, rockets, cannons, that sort of thing."

"Hmmmm…"

"But I decided against it," he immediately explained, taking the pencil out of his mouth. "I mean, I decided against suggesting it to Colonel Zechs, who'd have to call the Far East Military District's headquarters in Khabarovsk and ask. The Gundams are supposed to be OZ's responsibility, after all."

"That so?" Kanna began, not sounding entirely convincing. One of the small squares on the map wasn't crossed out, and she pointed at it. "What's this?"

"Oh, that's the Union's Ninth Guards Mobile Suit Division. The Union took a bunch of Leos from the Alliance after 'Daybreak' for themselves, and gave them to their best army units, called 'Guards'. Not to mention all the spare parts manufactured in _our_ factories in _their _territory for a mobile suit _we're_ no longer building for Earth."

"Sounds pretty complicated."

"I suppose so." He turned to face her, realizing he was just short enough to be at eye-level with her bright red tank top. He glanced over at her arm instead, and noticed she had a leather wristband on, about four centimeters long.

"Expecting a fight?" he asked, gesturing with his eyes at her wrist.

"Oh, these," she said, grinning and holding both wrists up—she had two of them. "I like to be prepared."

_Prepared that someone's going to reach into your mobile suit and punch you in the face? Really? _"Something we have in common."

As Kanna watched him continue looking the maps, the excited smile on her face slowly changing to a frown. She looked along the tabletop until she spotted an open notebook, which she took.

"Are these your notes, sir?"

He nodded, still flipping between maps.

"Can I look at them?"

"Go ahead, they're just sketches and guesswork, nothing classified above your pay grade."

Kanna took the notebook and flipped through it, past schematic drawings of mobile suits and mobile weaponry, stopping half-way through the notebook. Walker flipped to a map of Central Siberia and compared it with another map.

"Hey, Taichō…you've got some sketches of us in here," she said. "And other officers."

"Hmmm? Oh, yes, I sometimes sketch people as well."

"These are pretty good."

"Thank you."

Kanna flipped further. "These…these are really good." She looked at a black-and-white sketch of herself dressed in the same taunt tank top, one hand on her forearm and the other giving a thumbs-up, smiling broadly. There was a single line of handwritten text underneath it:

_**Flight Officer Kaneshiro Kanna, from the East Asian Military District. Born in Okinawa, AC 174. **_

"This…this is kind of amazing, sir."

He looked up briefly before returning to scribble on his maps. "Thanks."

"You're…you're an artist, you know that?"

"Well, they're all just drawn from life," he mumbled, sounding disinterested. "I've been drawing sketches for five years now. Most certified engineers can."

She flipped to the previous page, with a sketch of Ali Mazuri, grinning smugly in his Alliance service uniform and visor cap.

"Flight Officer A. K. Mazuri, from the East African Military District. Born in Nyeri, AC 175."

She flipped forward again, stopping on an eerily lifelike sketch of Dr. Eva from the knees upward, leaning against an invisible wall, a hand against her chin.

"Wow…" She looked at the page, before flipping back and forth. "No caption?"

"Kanna, can I have that back?"

She looked up to see Walker's left hand extended towards her, his right one holding a blue color pencil. "Oh, sorry Taichō."

He took the notebook back from her, flipped forward to a page of scribbled text, and began looking at the map again. Towards the center of the main hold, F/O Mazuri had been watching the two before turning back to P/O Bishop, who was sitting in Mazuri's mobile suit.

"Well, that was a little odd," Mazuri said, holding a ninety-millimeter kinetic energy penetrator made of tungsten carbide in his hands.

"Yeah. Walker…the flight lieutenant can be that sometimes," Dac replied, climbing out of the cockpit and picking up another 90 mm round and handing it to Mazuri. "Look at this one."

"Thanks. So…you feel like sharing now?"

"Oh, _God_, what is wrong with you?" Dac whined. "Why do you _care_?"

"Why do I care?" Mazuri asked, awkwardly dropping the penetrator, which bounced against the floor loudly before rolling to a stop. "This is what comrades _do_, okay? Do you not have social interaction in OZ? I try and be friendly, and you bloody bite my head _off _because I try and find some common ground between us!" he told him, gesturing wildly.

Dac sighed and threw his arms into Mazuri's cockpit. "Common ground?"

"Forgive me for thinking we might have something in common. I grew up with four sisters in Nyeri, and I thought we could relate somehow. Shoot me for being so wrong," he told him, throwing his hands up in the air.

"Fine, fine, I'm sorry," Dac replied, pulling himself out of the cockpit. "I guess you're the one going out there to fight a Gundam, not me, so it's not that unreasonable a request."

"Thank you."

Dac sighed. "I don't really know where to begin."

"You could tell us her name Dac," Kanna called out from her open cockpit.

"Right, thanks," he called back. "Uh, my twin sister's name is Rachel Nina Bishop. She was born in Windsor, like me."

"I would hope so," Mazuri mumbled. Kanna snickered a little.

"That's it!" Dac said, throwing up his arms and walking away, towards the front of the aircraft.

"Oh, come on, Dac!"

"We're sorry!"

"This crap I put up with, they barely pay me enough to put up with this…" Walker heard him mumble as he passed by.

**IV**

"Status report," Lieutenant Colonel Une ordered as she and Flight Lieutenant Noin entered the command-and-control room by way of elevator.

"Ma'am! All mobile suit divisions active along the airborne route and land route are standing by, at full alert."

"Maintain satellite surveillance for course irregularities, we may lose communications."

"Yes, ma'am!" a staff officer standing at the glowing hemispherical world display in the center of the room acknowledged.

"It's only a matter of time now," Une said, putting her arms over the display.

Noin took a chair along the main display. "Lieutenant Colonel, if I may, which carrier route is authentic?"

"Both are extremely important," she told her stiffly. It was apparent to Noin that Une was hiding something, though she couldn't tell exactly what that was.

A staff officer sitting to Une's right spoke. "Sirs! Gundam Zero-Four located nine-point-zero kilometers from land route point A." A section of the green display turned red.

"Understood, Fourth Airborne Division, engage!"

A third of a world away, Squadron Leader Sebastian Krist sat inside the cockpit of his OZ-06MS 'Leo' mobile suit, eating a mediocre-tasting protein and nutrient bar that would serve as his dinner for the evening, and potentially his final meal. Finishing the bar, he picked up a bottle of water and carefully opened it—his machine was sitting at an angle, so he took care not to spill water all over his uniform.

"The waiting's the worst part," he mumbled, taking a mouthful of water before closing the bottle up and setting it on the floor of the cockpit.

As if on cue, sirens blared all around him. Instinctively, he toggled on his machine's electrical systems. The screens came to life, flashing on his large sunglasses.

"_Attention all units, Gundam Zero-Four is confirmed, eight-thousand and closing,_" he heard over his radio. "_Fourth Airborne is engaging!_"

"_New contacts! Multiple mobile suits on the bluffs overlooking the tracks. It's the Maganac Corps!_"

Outside, the Maganac Corps fired upon the ex-Alliance's best known armored transport train, the _Mammoth Express_, as it raced north towards its destination at Baikonur, in the Republic of Kazakhstan. Their autocannon and siege weapon fire bounced off its reinforced armor harmlessly when they managed to hit. They had better luck against the 4th Airborne Division of the Central Eurasian Air Army, until the Aries turned their fire onto them, forcing them to take cover among the bluffs.

"_Argus, Beagle and Deadeye, target the lead units of the Maganac Corps! I don't care they're not Gundams, kill them!_" the angry division leader shouted over the channel.

Flight Officer Disraeli selected a Maganac at his 12:30, eight-hundred meters away. "Affirmative, Beagle 2-3, engaging!" He squeezed the trigger in his right flight stick and sent a burst of 90 mm chain rifle fire downrange. It combined with fire from another Aries' missile pods, and the orange-and-tan mobile suit vanished in an explosion.

_"All flights, check your IFF, units of the Red Army's Fourth Battalion are engaging!"_

"_OZ units, this is the lead company of the Fourth Guards Battalion! We're engaging a Gundam at our position! Repeat, it's a Gun-_" a voice with a Russian accent announced before being cut off abruptly.

Unit 04 cut through Leo mobile suits belonging to the Eurasian Union's Red Army, scattering the inexperienced pilots who had converged on him. "_There's no mistake, this is the real route!_" The Gundam moved into position along the double-railway tracks, hoping to force a derailment by destroying the tracks, when the _Mammoth Express _landed a direct hit with its dual-barreled beam cannon turret, knocking it forward.

Inside the armored driver's compartment, the _Mammoth Express'_ commander, a former Alliance Major now serving in the OZ Terrestrial Forces Engineering Corps, Transport Service, watched the Gundam double over onto the tracks.

"Sir!" a subordinate officer shouted.

"Maintain speed! We try and stop at this speed, we'll derail! Ram it!" the major ordered.

"Yes, sir!"

Just then, the whole train shook violently, knocking the major off his feet. Unit 02 had launched itself onto a train car, with its vernier thrusters, was attempting to derail the train. He succeeded in short order, catastrophically derailing more than ten thousand tonnes of train. The major fell back onto a console so hard he cracked open his head and died almost immediately.

Inside his mobile suit, Krist held his head again until he felt his bearings return. The derailment probably killed some of the actual crew, but Krist and his comrades had taken precautions—their mobile suits sat within self-correcting cradles mounted on rings inside the individual cars, able to absorb the tremendous g forces of a derailment.

"This is Foxtrot Actual. Forget sounding off, all units deploy _now_!" he barked, adjusting his glasses. He entered the broadcast code to retract the armored shutters. "If your doors are stuck, shoot your goddamn way out!"

The dim light of the gunfire and artillery flashed in the car, and his machine rose out of the car, siege cannon mounted on his machine's right arm and shield on its left. Next to him, two units rose out of the same car, brandishing autocannons. They flashed their floodlights on, calibrating their cameras.

"Foxtrot and Grim Platoons, move on me! Argus, Beagle, Deadeye, secure the crash site and engage Gundam Zero-Four!"

"_Acknowledged!_"

**V**

"Contact, Colonel!" the copilot announced in the lead aircraft.

Ogasawara immediately sat up in the couch as Zechs leaned forward. "I want confirmation."

"Affirmative, Colonel, working on that right now," the officer said, checking his instrumentation. "AWACS _Snowstorm_, the radar signature is still weak over here, can you confirm?"

Zechs waited impatiently for a response, and could hear Ogasawara climbing out of the couch, her boots ringing against the cabin floor. She produced a small tube of red lipstick and began painting lines on her face.

"The flight lieutenant's…_odd_," the navigation officer mentioned with a Scottish accent.

"That flight lieutenant is the longest-serving soldier in the Special Recon Battalion," Zech told him sharply. "She's spent longer than anyone else in OZ's best mobile suit battalion for extraterrestrial reconnaissance, battlespace control operations, and high-risk insertions and extractions. Remember that if she ever _appears_ eccentric to you before being thrown into the battle as OZ's spearhead."

"I'm sorry sir," the navigator immediately responded. "Isn't the flight lieutenant only a year older than you?"

"More relevantly, she's been in Special Recon for almost forty months, a year longer than any of her comrades. All other officers have either been transferred out, or killed in action."

The navigator turned back to his instrument panel. "I see, sir."

"I make a point of doing my homework when it comes to my subordinates, Pilot Officer," he growled, almost gleefully.

A light flashed on the instrument panel. "Sir, message from Luxembourg. Two Gundams confirmed at the land route!"

"That's all the confirmation I need," Zechs announced, climbing out of his seat.

**VI**

"_All call signs, weapons restrictions lifted, deploy into the combat zone immediately! Repeat, scramble immediately!_"

Walker looked up from his maps, as Chernenko and the two men and women sitting around hotplate and a pot of soup immediately stumbled to their feet, spilling their bowls and spoons over the catwalk.

"All, right, you heard the woman, let's move! Misha, Anna, get into a forward 'V' formation as soon as you're in the air," Chernenko yelled as he made his way towards his mobile suit in the rear. Walker immediately pushed aside the maps and ran to the gantry where Mazuri and Dac were already waiting. Kaneshiro came running down from the flight deck.

"See you on the outside, Osvaldovych." Chernenko strapped his leather flight helmet on and goggles on, before pulling the lever to close his cockpit.

Walker nodded back at him before turning to his own team. "Everyone, front and center, I need a quick word," he announced, just as the lights in the hold turned red.

Mazuri and Kana, both sorting through field equipment, looked at Walker, surprised. Along with Dac, they filed in front of Walker, as the three mobile suits behind them began deploying.

"This is our second mission together, so it might seem odd that I'm saying this now. However, it'll be our first mission against the Gundams—likely two of them, and potentially more—so I'd like to say something while I have a chance."

Walker stood opposite the three of them, along the gangplank separating the third and fourth Aries mobile suits. The cargo hold rear door lowered downwards and the first mobile suit moved into launch position, the hold decompressing violently.

Walker raised his voice and began fixing his uniform with his left hand. "I've never been good with speeches, to be honest. But I have fought against a Gundam. Likely one of the Gundams we're going to face tonight. I hope I've learned from my mistakes. You may be some of the some of the best pilots in Earth Sphere, but the Gundams have fought and beaten many of them."

Staring forward, Bishop elbowed Mazuri at the mention of "best pilots." Walker did the top buttons on his double-breasted jacket, then began fixing his misaligned collar. "Fight with what you've be told, what you've learned—stay in formation, follow your operational orders. If you seek revenge for your fallen comrades, you'll end join them. Remember, we have two objectives—defend the air transport fleet, and destroy the Gundams. There are few things worse for a soldier than two separate orders of equal importance. So we'll fight as a flight, are we clear?"

"Yes sir!"

Walker fixed his collar. "Good luck out there. Victory or defeat…I hope I see you all again."

Walker watched as they separated. Kanna ran down the gantry, tying her hachimaki to her her forehead, while Mazuri strapped himself into his Aries, at the front of the hold. "Nothing like the lieutenant's sunny optimism to build confidence, is there?"

"Would you rather he lie?" Kanna asked over the radio.

"Honestly? I've heard my share of battlefield speeches. It depends on who's lying."

Walker climbed into his own mobile suit, strapping his restraint tightly and switching on his electronics. A young engineer leaned into his cockpit. "Sir, everything's in order, but we just received updated frequencies from the Eurasian Army, they're listed under your shortcuts."

"Thank you, Yoshitsune."

"Good luck, sir." He saluted at him before backing off from the cockpit.

"Beagle Actual, ready to deploy." He closed the cockpit and watched the displays come on around him, as he heard the mobile suit behind him swing back on its cradle and out the airlifter.

"_Beagle Mothership to beagle Actual. __You're cleared, Beagle, get out there!_"

"Beagle Actual launching!" A light in the cockpit flashed, and he activated the cradle release, feeling his mobile suit slide backwards on the cradle and then of the carrier aircraft. He immediately opened up the throttle.

The command aircraft broadcasted over the channel. "_AWACS _Snowstorm_ confirms the incoming cargo aircraft matches the one commandeered by the Gundams from New Edwards. All mobile suits, engage!_"

In a tight formation, Beagle Flight opened up with their chain rifles at the wings of the sleek-profiled cargo lifter, only large enough to be carrying two mobile suits. They immediately scored hits on both wings, destroying its wingroot turbines and setting its fuel tanks ablaze. Another hit knocked off most of the tail.

Through their camera magnification, they watched as Gundam-03 emerged from the top of the aircraft. The whole flight opened fire on the aircraft, causing it to explode around the Gundam.

"_AWACS _Snowstorm_ confirming, aircraft is destroyed!_"

"That won't be enough!" Walker warned. Proving him right, Gundam-03 emerged from plume of smoke, riding on its vernier thrusters. As it made its descent, it opened fire with its Gatling, catching a pair of Aries mobile suits in its sights.

"_The transport fleet has arrived at its refueling point at Mirny. The Eurasian Ninety-Second Tank Division is moving to engage!_"

_As bad as it is for us, how bad must it be for those poor Russian souls who'll be dying in their tanks. At least the Alliance was good for that. _Walker watched as Gundam-03, in mid-decent, opened fire on the tank platoons, hitting the main battle tanks with enough force to blow off their turrets and cut clean through their armored hulls.

In some respects, main battle tanks were more "survivable" than mobile suits, even when faced with Gundams: the average MBT weighed four times that of the average MS, and had a fall smaller profile—most tanks were only three meters tall, and Eurasian ones were sleeker and shorter. They had thinner armor, but were far less exposed.

On the other hand, the Gundams were not just heavily armed, they were remarkably accurate. And when the best gun on a tank was at most a 150 mm smoothbore gun with an autoloader that could fire the occasional guided missile, no tank could match the firepower of a single Leo with a 105 mm autocannon, much less a Gundam. Worse, due to their height, they couldn't spot and fire at targets at what mobile suits would consider close range without reconnaissance vehicles.

To the north of the tanks, the Eurasian Leos formed a perimeter and began targeting the Gundam with as much discipline as they could muster—they even held their line as Gundam-03 turned to fire on them touching ground, decimating their ranks. Next the pilot turned on the Eurasian ground-attack aircraft.

"_He's just torn through the shturmoviks!_" a pilot yelled over the channel, using the common term for such aircraft.

"Don't break formation!" Walker yelled back. "They're doing their job, now we need to do ours!"

He watched an Aries at his 1 o'clock explode in a fireball. "Take evasive action!"

As he inside the OZ-00MS 'Tallgeese', Zech's radio set beeped, and Noin's voice came through. "_Zechs! Zero-One has just arrived, inbound for Mirny at sixteen-hundred! It's heading for Zero-Three!"_

Zechs flipped pressed the release key before clutching both the flight sticks, slouching in the cockpit. "That's unfortunate, Walker was right. One shot, and he can hit the entire transport fleet on the ground," he mumbled, glancing out of the corner of his eye at his port display screen. A small window showed the aircraft still being refueled at Mirny.

"It'll be close, but I'll intercept him midway." He fired his vernier booster array's afterburners and rapidly accelerating past his mothership.

In her cockpit, Ogasawara watched the rapidly closing Tallgeese on her radar display, while avoiding the volley of fire from Gundam-03. "Lightning Count, your orders?"

"_Push Zero-Three back, I'll deal with Zero-One_."

"Acknowledged. Walker, Chernenko, Wilson, flights on my position, heading zero-nine-three, full throttle! We're pushing Zero-Three back to the outer perimeter!" she yelled into her headset.

"_Roger, Ogasawara!_"

"_Acknowledged, ma'am!_"

In his mobile suit, Zechs came to a soft landing in a plot of short trees, as the position of Eurasian mobile suit units lit up on his display over datalink. _The Red Army might buy us some time. At the cost of their own lives. _

Noin's voice came over the military channel. "_Data verified. They're the two Gundams that appeared at Corsica._"

"Two of them, huh?" Zechs asked, making no effort to hide his real interest.

There was a new ping: AWACS _Snowstorm _had spotted something in the air again. _There he is! _he almost shouted to himself before slowing his accelerated breathing.

_Well, Walker, let's put your data to use. _He pushed the throttle completely forward, setting the afterburner system to full emergency power, and felt the jolt of several times gravity against his skeleton as Tallgeese lurched off.

Well past it, Gundam-03 was firing as it gradually moved through the outer perimeter around Mirny, destroying everything in his path, tanks, aircraft, mobile suits. A few Red Army Leos had broken off to engage the inbound Gundam-01, still in flight mode. The battalion commander, in a Leo armed with a Russian-made 375 mm "dober gun" scored a hit on the Gundam.

"_Hit! Hit! Hit!_" a voice cried in Russian over the channel. Gundam-01 struck the ground with enough force to leave a deep score in the earth before sliding to halt, exiting flight mode.

The battalion commander aimed again and fired, striking Gundam-01 in his large, red shield, knocking him around. The Gundam aimed its huge beam cannon in the approximate direction of the battalion commander and fired, obliterating three Leo mobile suits in a single wave of charged particles and superheated plasma. As the remaining Leos began to scatter, Tallgeese kept closing in, reducing his altitude.

Ogasawara watched from her mobile suit as they converged on Gundam-03's position. The Gundam literally seemed to take pause, before aiming again and firing a second full-power shot from its beam cannon, only to miss when Tallgeese used vector thrusting on its vernier booster and shot upwards, just out of the field. Slowing down about seven-hundred meters above the Gundam, Tallgeese aimed carefully and fired pair of shots from its 370 mm gun. As before, they exploded violently but harmlessly against the Gundam, enveloping it in a cloud of dirt and smoke.

_Firing a dober gun in mid-air. Tallgeese is one monster of a machine, _Ogasawara watched as an alarm tone rang in her cockpit. "All flights, engage! Force him back!" she shouted, squeezing her trigger.

Inside Gundam-01, the young pilot shook his head after the violent shaking his mobile suit had taken. A voice echoed inside his cockpit, through the speakers. "_That's enough, Gundam Zero-One. We've no need for beam rifles and cannons between us._"

Inside his cockpit, Zechs tapped the weapon jettison switch, jettisoning his 370 mm gun and letting it fall to the ground as his mobile suit descended smoothly on its boosters. His machine reached into its arm-mounted shield and withdrew one of two beam sabers it carried, the closest-ranged anti-mobile suit weapons used by OZ and identical to those on the Leo. The weapon was activated, causing a closed magnetic field holding a particle loop to extend like a glowing red blade from the emitter.

"We'll fight for recognition of superiority," he told the Gundam pilot. "I'm sure that'll suit you. You are a Gundam pilot, after all!"

Ogasawara listened over the open channel, as she and the other Aries continued their barrage against Gundam-03, trying to keep it suppressed and unable to advance. "No way in hell the Gundam's stupid enough to buy that," she said over the military channel. "If he's got any goddamn sense, he fires his third shot at Tallgeese and cooks Zechs in one shot."

"_Roger that, Emi, he's…wait…Holy shit! Look!_" Wilson said.

Ogasawara watched as the Gundam-01 jettisoned its beam cannon and ejected a beam saber out of its shield, before drawing and activating it with a green glow.

"I can't believe what I'm seeing. Home boy bought it," Ogasawara said, almost too shocked for words.

Tallgeese touched ground just a few suit-lengths from Gundam-01, disengaging his boosters and closing the nacelles. Another alarm rang in her cockpit and she turned back to the forward display. "_Zero-Three's opening its missile racks! Evade!_"

As Gundam-03 fired a missile barrage in the direction of Mirny AFB, Walker watched Tallgeese and Gundam-01 engage each other in a duel, almost hypnotized. The power gap between the two machines was immediately evident—Gundam-01 carried a large shield of the same unique polymeric alloy as the rest of the mobile suit, which could actually deflect Tallgeese's beam saber at full power. Zechs would need a direct hit on a joint or the torso to cripple the Gundam, and even that wasn't a certainty. By contrast, Tallgeese was made of the same titanium alloy as the smaller Leo.

Despite all this, it was Zechs who was on the offensive—the Tallgeese battered the Gundam's shield before it slid backwards on its thrusters.

"I think I've won this battle," Zechs told himself. "I feel no fear whatsoever! I can defeat you without using Tallgeese's full capabilities!"

Gundam-01 was equipped with a massive search eye sensor array, in the center of its torso over the pilot's compartment—the young pilot had it actively scan Tallgeese and try to put together a basic technical readout. "The Leo prototype? So OZ completed it. It won't be easy, but I'll destroy it," he noted.

Gundam-03 had been briefly interrupted by the duel between Tallgeese and Gundam-01, before resuming its assault on the Eurasian units closing on its position. A few kilometers away at Mirny AFB, the lead aircraft of the transport fleet sat on the tarmac, while its crew sat anxiously in the flight deck.

The pilot checked the digital fuel gauge, rapping his knuckles against the instrumental panel, as the distance gunfire illuminated the night. "…that's enough, we need to get the hell out of here. All aircraft, this is Squadron Commander Castro, prepared for immediate taxi and takeoff."

The radio operator began yelling at his station. "Mirny Tower, this is Olga-Zinaida-Zero-Zero-Eight-Eight-Two-One requesting taxi, departing east!"

"Luxembourg, this is the transport fleet, it's starting to get a little hot here. We're standing by for emergency takeoff."

Back in Luxembourg, Noin received the transmission from Mirny. "Colonel, the Taurus carriers are requesting takeoff permission. I'll give the order!" she told Lady Une.

"I didn't approve that," Une told her coldly. "My stratagems don't fail, Lieutenant."

She turned away from the hemispherical display and walked towards the communications console. "Get Space Fortress _Barge _on the line!"

**VII**

Trant Clark was no commando; like his comrade Walker, he _was_ an engineer but not in the strictest sense was he combat engineer. Thankfully, a combination of infiltrators and Speciali staff officers already present on _Barge _made it possible to overwhelm the skeleton crew without bloodshed. The Space Forces present had no idea to expect a revolt on their largely-empty space fortress of all places, and they quietly surrendered rather than engage in a suicidal gunfight inside tough, bullet-deflecting corridors.

"This is Second Lieutenant Walker aboard Space Fortress _Barge_," a young junior officer said from her position in the communications deck, directly adjacent to the overbridge. To her immediate left, another junior officer in the same hunter green uniform attempted to overcome the Alliance jamming protocols and ECM broadcasted from other ships. "Colonel Une, can you read me?"

The message was not immediately clear. With a quick glance, the other officer made some adjustments. "_...I read you, _Barge."

"Colonel, the fortress itself is secure and positioing is complete." Aretha Walker saw the other officer give a thumbs-up and opened the datalink to Une's headquarters. Behind them, a original communications crew of three officers had surrendered, two with their hands on the wall and one on the ground.

"_Acknowledge, _Barge_. Stand by_."

She glanced at the Alliance section chief, her former superior, who had his hands behind his head and his knees on the ground. An anxious Clark, his helmet pulled up, was still holding him at gunpoint with his assault rifle. _I guess me getting a new uniform last week didn't tip you off, did it?_

**VIII**

_"We can shoot at this thing all day, we're just slowing him down!_"

"_Then shut up and slow him down more!_"

"_Acknowledged, Arrow Actual. Attack vector…ahhh!"_

_"Eagle Actual, what happened? Wilson, answer!"_

"_This is Eagle Actual. I'm hit and losing power!_"

"Wilson! Pull up!" Walker screamed.

"_Hit the silk!_" another pilot shouted.

"_I can't…I can't…_" Wilson was cut off when his mobile suit crashed in a fireball on the Siberian soil.

"_Eagle Actual's down! Repeat, Eagle Actual's down! Beagle Flight, break off and try and lure him away from the crash sight!_"

"Acknowledged!" Walker's flight passed Gundam-03 as it slowly turned, still firing from its Gatling. Abruptly, it fired opened fire with its clavicle-mounted machine cannons in their direction, while trying to aim its Gatling.

"It's happening again," Walker told himself, shaking involuntarily in his seat. "Damn it all…"

"_Beagle Actual, you're getting a lot of ground fire, watch your formation!_"

_"Beagle Actual, watch your six, you're getting close to the…" _Chernenko's voice was cut off when Walker felt his whole mobile shake violently and drop a few meters and warning tones blared.

His machine had been hit. _"He's got a bearing on you, Beagle Actual! Pull to your right!" _

Without thinking, he immediately did, but it was too late. His suit shook violently again, and the only thing he could hear was the deafening roar of Gundam-03's Gatling and chest-mounted rotary cannons all around him. Something connected, and he was enveloped in smoke and sparks, as his starboard display screen shattered. All he could do was raise his arm, trying to shield himself, as glass rained down on his face and goggles. Something else in his cockpit exploded, sending shrapnel in his direction from the front.

"_Walker's hit!_"

"_Beagle 1-1, pull out!_"

Walker pulled back on his flight stick, increasing his altitude and emerging from the thick cloud of dust. "This is Beagle Actual," Walker said, trying to clear the dark hydraulic fluid from his goggles' lenses. "I'm hit. Still have power, but my instrumentation is damaged." He looked at his flight instruments—the entire left side was now melting, broken plastic, and several displays on the right side were cracked or sporadic flickering from component failures.

"Forward display's fine, Beagle 1-2, 1-3, set up for another attack run at..."

He was cut off when, pushing on his left pedal, a pain shot through his left side. "…another attack run from two-five-nine!"

"_Taich__ō__, are you okay?_" Beagle 1-2 asked.

Walker blinked several times. He was no longer shaking, but the pain in his left side was bad, and his left hand was tingling.

"_Taich__ō__!_"

He pulled off his goggles and his folding cap, as he tried to hold his machine steady with his right hand. "I'm…I might be…"

"_Beagle Flight, this is Damocles Actual!_" It was Ogasawara's voice. "_Beagle Actual is going down, regroup with the remains of Eagle and Falcon and cover us!_"

_"Acknowledged._"

"_Beagle 1-1, Walker, I'm ordering you to pull up and throttle down! You're losing altitude!_"

He wiped his face with his sleeve. "I'm not…I'm not…" he mumbled a few times before pulling back on the flight stick and the throttle simultaneously. Once more, his machine shook abruptly, causing him to cry out and shake in his seat, but it didn't feel like it'd be hit.

Ogasawara's Aries had secured Walker's mobile suit by the center fuselage, now controlling its descent and is began to emit smoke from a severe hit near the cockpit. Jolting roughly, Ogasawara reversed her turbines and brought Walker's machine down safely onto the ground, before flying fifty meters ahead and setting down herself.

Walker had barely realized his machine was no longer moving. He just understood something was very wrong, and being unable to think straight just made it worse. A hundred things raced in his mind simultaneously, including the echo of the gunfire from Gundam-03, which he couldn't ascertain whether he was actually hearing or imagining it himself.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's notes:<strong>_

_Wow! That was very long! As mentioned, I have concerns about plot changes resulting from _The Glory of Losers, _so I'm leaving a few things unanswered for the time being. Next chapter won't be this long either, I would hope. I've already started working on it, since I was debating how to finish this chapter itself, but I will need to come to a conclusion._

_Why is Chernenko calling Walker "Osvaldovych" you may ask? Patronymics: Chernenko thinks (incorrectly) that Walker's father's name is Oswald. _

_By next chapter, we should have finally hit episode 11, _The Whereabouts of Happiness_, which should be pretty difficult, since Une is no longer directly responsible for the death of Relena's father. Just another thing to work out myself. _


	12. Zechs, Distracted by Victory

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 12 **– Zechs, Distracted by Victory****

_Before Midnight of 9 June__, AC 195, Mirny, Sakha Republic_

Flight Lieutenant Ogasawara Emi pulled the lever opening the cockpit hatch, watching the instrument panel and forward display rise and the cockpit door open. The cold night air filled her cockpit immediately, causing her to shiver in her crop top. About forty meters ahead, she spotted fellow F/L Oswald Walker rising to his feet in front of his crippled mobile suit before awkwardly walking forward. Squinting through her goggles, she could see he was clutching his left side.

"Walker, how badly are you wounded? Walker?" She pulled off her radio, grabbed the first aid kit off the back wall of her cockpit, and undid her restraints, falling out of her cockpit and landing on her feet.

"Walker!" she shouted across the Siberian plain.

Walker kept slowly moving towards her, now limping. He was missing his folding cap, and she could see red staining his white gloves. As she approached him, he seemed to stop, take a deep breath, and pulled something out of his abdomen. He screamed in pain, much louder than Ogasawara thought Walker could scream, and clutched something in his bloody hands.

"Walker!" she screamed, before sprinting across the plain to him. She reached him just in time to catch him in her arms as he fell forward.

"What the hell happened to you?" she shouted at him. His face, normally kept clean and neat, was a sprayed with a black substance and a few shades paler than it should have been. He looked like he was sweating and his eyes seemed to move rapidly back and forth. She carefully set him down on the ground and looked at his tightly clenched hands. With little effort, she wrestled his fingers apart and found him clenching something—a long shard of polymer plastic about twelve centimeters long with half of it soaked in blood. "What is this?"

"Cockpit…shrapnel…Gundam fired at me, didn't dodge fast enough…" he mumbled. "Debris entered my cockpit. Commander, I'm in a lot of pain…arugh…"

Walker winced in pain and Ogasawara looked down. In his double-breasted green jacket, on the left side, was a visible hole through the material. The hole was surrounded by an expanding red spot.

"Shit, Walker, you've been _stabbed_!" she screamed. "How did you get _stabbed _in your own _cockpit_?"

Walker mumbled something incoherent, a trail of drool out of the right corner of his mouth. "Gaaahhh…"

"What?" Emi demanded angrily.

Walker opened and closed his jaws for a few minutes, and visibly tried to focus. "…I think I'm going into shock, Commander Oga-Oga-Ogasa..."

"Just call me 'Emi'," she told him, looking around. Besides their two mobile suits, they were alone in field. No Gundam or other mobile suits to be seen. Just bursts of cannon fire in the distance."Just…lay down," she told him.

"Yes ma'am."

"And stop talking!"

"Yes ma'am…" he mumbled, sounding lightheaded.

"Just stay still, I need to find the wound," she hissed at him as she began pulling at his double-breasted jacket, trying to tear it open.

"I think…I think I punctured my spleen," he told her quietly.

Emi growled angrily and begun undoing his uniform. "Damn it, Walker, you take the wrong parts of your job way too seriously, and now you're bleeding to death." She finally undid all ten polished buttons and opened his uniform, then tore apart the maroon blouse he was wearing underneath it. The shard of plastic had gone through the wool jacket, the blouse, and even his undershirt.

"Damn it," Emi hissed, peeling his undershirt off the wound. A steady stream of blood trickled out of a small, jagged hole over his abdomen. "Okay, it looks like you ruptured your spleen."

"…right again…" Walker mumbled, too softly to be heard. He coughed twice, hacking up blood on her chest, before his head fell backward limply.

She put a hand on his wound, opening the first aid kit by cracking it against the hard ground. A few basic medical supplies fell out. "Apparently, your service uniform doesn't protect your internal organs from getting skewered by shrapnel."

She carefully moved Walker on the ground so she could prop his feet up against a nearby rock. "Is…is that why you wear that? In case you get…hurt?" he asked, sounding increasingly delirious.

The wind blowing across the plain caused her to shiver as she searched through the supplies with one hand. Walker coughed again, louder, hacking out more blood. She put more pressure on his side.

_Remember basic medical. Keep him awake, talking, active, anything to keep him from going in shock. _"What, you think I like wearing crop tops?" Emi asked, grinning frantically. "We're outside Mirny, Siberia, at night. It's nine degrees centigrade out here with wind chill. I could cut glass here."

Hearing her, Walker stifled for a few seconds before laughing out loud. It was the first time she'd heard him laugh: they sounded short and difficult, and ended with another bloody cough. "I'm…I'm sorry for laughing, commander."

"Afraid you'll offend me?" she asked, keeping pressure on his abdomen.

"Yes, but also because it's very painful, ma'am…" he said, before coughing again, this time spitting out blood.

"Come on, Walker, stay with me here," she told him. "This isn't a movie, people survive penetrating splenic injuries all the time."

Walker coughed a little more. "Really?"

"Of course," she snapped at him. With her left hand, she tore open the packaging around a large bandage, exposing the adhesive. "Now, this'll stop the external bleeding. The medics will be here in a second, and they'll deal with your internal bleeding."

Removing her bloody right hand, she tried to wipe off the blood steadily trickling out of Walker before sticking the bandage on, then began wrapping his abdomen with gauze.

"How do you feel, Walker?"

Walker didn't immediately respond, but some blood did trickle out of his mouth. "_Walker!_" she yelled.

"I…my vision is very blurry, and I have a lot of light headedness. The pain is still quite severe," he said, biting onto his lip. "Really…really, severe…really…r-really…"

"Walker, you're going into shock!" she yelled as Walker started stuttering and shaking more violently. She felt his forehead, finding it clammy and warm; while she was shivering, Walker was actually sweating.

"…r-really…really severe…"

"Damn it Walker, _stop that!_" she barked at him.

Walker coughed out some blood and tilted his head, letting some of the blood trickle out of his mouth with gravity. "S-Sorry, commander. I…my heart rate…is rising."

"Because you're going into septic shock! Or hypovolemic shock, I don't know, I'm not a doctor!" she yelled back at him. She looked around before hissing angrily, then stuffed the remaining supplies into his pockets and picked him up as carefully as she could.

"Can you still walk?"

Walker responded by vomiting out a mouthful of blood.

"Damn it, you survived a Gundam cutting your machine in half, but some plastic shrapnel turns your insides into Swiss cheese. Real nice, Walker," she mumbled, carrying him over to her machine and setting him down between the kneeling legs. She reached into one of her pockets and took out a folded Mylar space blanket, tore open the packaging, and began wrapping Walker inside it carefully.

"I'm…I'm not cold, commander…" he mumbled, sounding even weaker.

She felt his forehead. "You're burning up, that's why. Just shut up and stay awake."

Walker blinked a few times. "Commander Oga...Command…Emi. Emi."

She looked back at him. His blue-green eyes had dark bags under them now. "Just stay awake, Walker, the medics will be here soon."

"I'm…very sorry about this." He shifted underneath the aluminum blanket. "Very sorry, about…causing all this trouble. And coughing…all over your…shirt."

"Don't worry, I've got a whole wardrobe of them," she told them. "Where are those damn medics?" she mumbled softly.

"Wait here, Walker, I'm getting my radio," she told him, climbing up the cockpit hatch. "Not like you're going anywhere."

She took her radio headset and put it on, hearing strange chatter over a channel. Listening to it, she blinked and turned, just in time to see a twinkling flash, a few kilometers away. A second later, it grew much brighter, like a dying star before vanishing.

"Walker, look!" she said, pointing. "Walker?"

Walker wasn't responding.

**II**

Walker blacked out, so he missed a few things: the self-destruction of Gundam-01 by its pilot, the arrival of a Eurasian Army medical helicopter, being loaded onto a stretcher, then being evacuated to Mirny Air Force Base and treated by a military surgeon.

Emi watched him as they rapidly moved him from the helicopter to triage tents, set up specifically for the few survivors left among the Eurasian Leo units and OZ Aries squadrons, listening to the Russian coming out of the tent. The red-and-yellow flag of the Union of Eurasian Republics waved from a flagpole in the middle of the tent complex.

Someone finally exited. "Doctor!" she yelled, approaching a physician wearing soiled scrubs and a mask.

He noticed her bloodstained hand and clothing, pulled off his mask and adjusted his glasses. "Right, ma'am, you came with the captain, didn't you?" he asked her in English.

Emi tilted her head. _Right, Eurasians don't use our ranks. _"Yes, that was me, how is he?"

The doctor, a middle-aged Russian man with thinning hair and the wear of a twenty-year military career on his face, looked at him before smiling a little. "Comrade Walker will be fine," he told her. "As you said to the medics, his spleen was ruptured. I sutured the rupture closed and it will heal with rest and time."

He washed his hands in a nearby sink before pulling off the latex gloves and washing them again. "You did well to keep him fairly stable before the medevac, Comrade Captain."

The doctor looked at her again. "His fever and infection are easily treated with a vasopressor and antibiotics. We'll return Comrade Walker to your care very soon, I can promise."

She crossed her hands, looking less relieved than inconvenienced. "Is he awake?"

"Not yet, let him rest. Rest is crucial. Is he important to you?"

"_No_," she told him quickly and seriously. The doctor kept looking at her, drying his hands off. "He's a comrade, and under my command for this operation."

The doctor immediately backpedaled. "Of course. I did not mean to imply…something else. Excuse me."

He walked over a Eurasian Army officer, a sharp-dressed Russian woman with short hair in a camouflage and a folding cap, and addressed her in Russian. "_Tovarisch Mladshiy Leytenant_, would you please ensure the OZ Captain leaving the operating tent leaves with the other captain who came with her? There is an ongoing operation, I understand."

"Of course, Tovarisch _Mayor_, which captain?" she asked.

The doctor pointed at Emi, who stared back with suspicious eyes that made the junior lieutenant jump a little bit.

"The chesty one with the legs, Lieutenant. I did not get her name," he told her plainly in their tongue. "Next patient, please!"

**III**

Walker woke up in the medical ward. The first thing he saw a Eurasian Army junior officer, a man a few years his senior, awkwardly putting on his service tunic. The men and women of the Eurasian military dressed in the style of most of the pre-Alliance world military forces, seventy years ago—olive drab tunics with insignia on the lapels, over green blouses and ties, along with matching slacks or breeches with boots. The Eurasians liked bright colors, however, so their collar insignia came in bright colors—in this case, red—and their trousers carried the same color stripes. It was potentially ironic that the Eurasian Armed Forces, more than two-hundred years old, dressed in a style that was actually more modern than the Alliance, the Romefeller Foundation, and OZ.

He watched the junior officer awkwardly pull on his tunic, before he realized what was causing so much trouble: he was missing one of his hands. He'd probably lost it quite recently, when the Gundams attacked Mirny. He was young enough that an advanced prosthetic was probably in his near future.

Walker sat up in his bed before wincing in pain. He still felt like he'd been stabbed in the stomach.

Still barefoot, he carefully climbed out of bed. Pulling his IV rack after him he circled around the bed to the front where he looked at his chart. He could read just enough Russian, along with the pictures, to discern what had happened to him.

He looked down the top of his own medical gown. _Pretty good stiches. _He opened and closed his hands. _Ten fingers. _He looked down again. _Ten toes. I still have all my digits. _

Looking around, he spotted a small drawer that he shared with the adjacent bed, occupied by a comatose woman. He went through the drawers until opening the third one from the top, in which he found his dirty, ragged hunter green uniform.

**IV**

Breathing the late afternoon air, Kaneshiro Kanna wrapped her knuckles against the edge of the bench. Past her, David Bishop was lying on the soft grass while A. K. Mazuri sat on another bench.

"…Ukraine, Russia, Belarus…we were just in Sakha…Mongolia, Armenia, Georgia…"

"Georgia's not in the Union."

Dac was counting with his fingers. "Are you sure?"

Mazuri nodded, not facing him. "It's not."

"…Armenia?"

"You already said Armenia."

Kanna rolled her eyes when she managed to discern the sound of someone tapping faintly against the glass that lined the courtyard they were sitting in, around a statue of an ancient Eurasian doctor in a suit and tie, with an equally ancient emblem of a hammer crossed over a farming sickle on the pedestal. She turned in its direction, to see Walker tapping a finger against the glass, before looking for a door into the courtyard.

"_Taichō!_" Kanna called out, as Dac and Mazuri looked in the same direction. Walker passed along a few more windows before reaching a door, which he opened with some effort.

"Sir, you're awake!" They rose to their feet as he approached them slowly, taking careful steps.

"See, I told you he was fine. Little thing like that wouldn't keep the F/L down!" Mazuri said cheerfully.

"How long have you been here?" Walker asked, as Kanna patted him on both shoulders with more force than he was expecting. "How long was I out?" he asked, glancing at his wristwatch, broken and with a cracked face.

"Not even a day."

He looked at the three of them: Kanna wore a red tank top and black spandex workout pants with a red flower pattern on the left leg. Mazuri wore a tan khaki suit with a two-button blazer and slacks, complete with a folded handkerchief in the breast pocket. Finally, Dac wore denim jeans and a green sweater over a blue blouse.

The obvious occurred to Walker: he was the only one in uniform, albeit a bloody and oil-stained uniform with a hole in the left side. "So, in the day I was in the hospital, did the war end?"

As the four walked in a line, Mazuri snickered, his hands in his blazer pockets. "Sort of, sir."

Kanna explained, as they left the hospital for Mirny Air Force Base by bus. Kanna sat next to Walker. "Flight Lieutenant Ogasawara was with you when you arrived from Mirny AFB. She left after that, but I did have a chance to speak to her."

"What did she say?"

Kanna cocked her head. Her voice took on a casual, friendly air. "Not a lot, to be honest." On the plastic bus bunch along the outer wall, she propped the balls of her feet up next to her hands on the edge of the seats, sitting like an energetic child might. "Basically, Une-_tokusa_ was able to force the Gundams to surrender somehow."

"You're joking," Walker said. He didn't sound happy.

"I wish. Somehow, she forced the Gundams to withdraw, except for Gundam Zero-One, which self-detonated in front of Colonel Zechs via one of its battery packs!" Still sitting like a frog, she leaned towards him on the bench. "Guess the Gundams are as crazy as we thought they were. Turns out Zero-One's pilot was some fifteen-year-old!"

As a flight lieutenant, Walker had actually seen the classified report from the Alliance's Third Naval Hospital, where the Gundam pilot was originally held before he escaped, on the same day as the Battle of Corsica. _No, not really. _"Yes, it's pretty crazy," he said slowly. "How he'd get away?"

"How do you know he got away?" Mazuri asked calmly. Walker gave him a look.

"It's unconfirmed, but his body was taken by Zero-Three. We lost more than half of the forces at Mirny, so that was it," she said, shrugging.

"Of course. So the team's been on standby since?"

"Affirmative," Mazuri told him.

"What did you do in the meantime?"

"You mean, this morning and afternoon?" Dac asked. "Well, let's see: we had a late breakfast in town. Attending a briefing at noon. Had lunch, then watched a movie none of us could understand. Awesome time, really."

The bus stopped down the road from Mirny AFB, as they all climbed off. "So what now, sir?" Dac asked.

" I can't tell you for certain. But for myself, I'm going to get a new uniform, then report to the colonel. Outside town, there's about ten tonnes of Gundam scattered across the Siberian countryside, and a lot of work to be done before the others come back," he told them. "In the meantime, you're dismissed."

Mazuri glanced up at Kanna, who just shrugged, hands crossed over her chest.

**V**

"_Walker, it's Zechs. I heard you took a minor bruising against Zero-Three. That's good news."_

Walker was lucky—the staff at the OZ divisional headquarters had spare uniforms, and he practically defined "average" height and build for his age and ethnicity. _I've always heard women have a harder time getting uniforms, _he thought as he pulled a new double-breasted jacket over the fresh blouse. _Another thing I can't relate to. _

_"I'm in the fields east of Mirny, the Gudam's detonation site. I could use your help here."_

He listened to the voicemail left by Zechs as he finished buttoning his tunic. On the table in the changing top were a few other personal effects: his ceremonial saber, which he'd tossed into his mobile suit before deployment, its scabbard now pockmarked and scratched extensively, and his mobile suit pennant—largely resistant to the same scratching thanks to its construction. There was his personal defense weapon, the German machine pistol, less scratched and banged up then his saber,.

He took the pennant and dropped it into his briefcase, before gathering his saber and his mobile phone, which had remained in his uniform the whole time. He left the divisional headquarters, and took a borrowed Eurasian Army motorcycle—a Dnepr off-road model—out to the battle site.

As soon as he was on sight, he was looking through the upturned dirt, getting his fresh white trousers stained by tan soil. A perimeter had been established by the Red Army's 9th Guards Division, or rather, what was left of their Leo mobile suits. Looking up at them, he remembered they were indistinguishable from Alliance mobile suits, except for their gold-white-red Guards insignia painted on their torsos.

"Listen up!" He spoke to four OZ officers, all flight lieutenants like himself, who had been brought in from the Siberian Air Army to handle the delicate situation. "This is a regular mobile suit recovery operation. Across about a forty meter radius, we're looking for under seven tonnes of wreckage made mostly of GND polymer—that's short for Gravitationally-engineered Universal Neutral Discharge polymer, which the press calls Gundanium alloy when you add it to conventional materials—along with a high-powered beam rifle and ramming shield together weighing under two tonnes. We're lucky that the pilot self-destructed while stationary, meaning the wreckage dispersal is _minimal_. Bismarck and Borusewicz, see if you can isolate whatever's left of the explosive compound that augmented the power cell overload. I'd say RDX."

"Not Pentaerythritol?" Borusewicz asked.

"I'm not a chemist, are you?" he asked. "I mean that seriously, a chemist would be useful right now. Forget it. The point is, the Colonials designed a phenomenal war machine, that was equipped with an incredibly substandard self-destruction device. Unless their objective was to leave just enough evidence for us to completely reverse engineer anything we obtained."

There was something halfway between a murmur and a chuckle among the officers.

"Think about it. That's a mobile suit with a fusion reactor that must put out…twenty-five hundred kilowatts? You can't safely hardwire that to form any sort of catastrophic reaction. So you use the disposable power cells its carrying for its beam cannon, which makes sense. But it also means you'd have to literally pack a Gundam with enough military-grade explosive to destroy the evidence…"

"…which, thanks to the Gundanium, they couldn't."

"That's what I'm starting to think. Hussein, you know something about beam rifles, right? Can you give me your general estimation as the condition of the cyclotron in the beam cannon? I've heard that's something that wouldn't survive an explosion."

"I'll take a look, F/L."

"Von Wulf, you're with me." He glanced over at the massive cargo carrier with a flatbed surface capable of transporting a mobile suit. "I want to see what we've got."

"_Jawohl_, Flight Lieutenant. This way."

He followed the officer up the side ladder and onto the flatbed. Before he, arranged in approximate layout, were a few tonnes of Gundam Zero-One, lying face down: much of the right leg, a good deal of the torso and wing roots, the main propulsion thrusters,

"The damn wing roots kept us from lying it on its back." he said, glancing over at the large mobile crane nearby. "All the same, we've around found a lot. The condition is another matter."

Walker nodded. _More than I expected_, he thought, glancing over as a Leo carefully picked up most of the beam cannon.

"So what do you think, sir?"

"It's more than I expected. I missed the self-detonation out in the field, but from the description, there wasn't much left." _Then again, this confirms my suspicions. A pilot could have survived this. _I _survived worse than this. And I'm not an insane, conditioned Colonial anarchist. _"Let's assume they at least destroyed most of the internal electronics, power conduits, gyroscopes and the reactor—those are all things OZ pioneered."

He scratched his chin as he tapped the side of the Gundam's right leg with his boot. "What's the name of the officer the Eurasians are sending in on this?"

The battle happened in their country, so the Eurasians had every right to investigate. Even more so, they were lending cranes, recovery vehicles and Leos to the effort. "A major from the Red Army, a Konstantin Novikov."

Walker blinked and looked at von Wulf. "Konstantin Dmitrievich Novikov?" he asked.

"I think so, sir. He's right over there. Meanwhile, I want to take a look at the other side."

"I'll take the shoulders." Walker circled around, surveying the wreck, when he heard two familiar voices—Noin and Zechs—speaking from beneath him.

"So, even Gundams end up as scraps of metal. Or polymer."

"This Gundam's design is based on Tallgeese. So I think the basic technology utilized for Tallgeese could be applied to it."

Zechs glanced up at Walker, who politely looked up before reaching out and into a crack in the armored plating wide enough to stick his hand through.

He continued. "Noin, would you mind if I took this Gundam with me to Lake Victoria?"

"Are you planning to rebuild it?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"It seems I'm still preoccupied with its pilot."

"The _dead _pilot?"

Zechs knelt down over some debris. "I have a feeling he's alive. It's unlikely after that blast, but I do hope so. As a fellow pilot, I feel we were meant to battle. "

Walker couldn't even permit himself to mentally redress what Zechs had said while facing him. Instead he pulled harder at the coil of wiring he'd grasped through the crack in the armor. _This is where you and I disagree, sir. I expect him to be alive to, but I wish he weren't. And regardless of my feelings towards Une, whatever she did to end the battle should have been done sooner, before good soldiers were killed. _

**VI**

Apparently, Lady Soris Armonia was passing on her way through the city of Mirny in Siberia, and wanted a chance to speak to her fellow lieutenant colonel, Zechs Merquise. It was the sort of coincidence Walker didn't like but was used to. High officers did this sort of thing. Jetting around on Romefeller's dime. At least Soris was doing to meet with soldiers, and not her boyfriend or her nephew or the like.

That evening, having returned from the wreck site, Walker cleaned himself and found himself looking for Emi—he actually meant to do so earlier, but running around busy with a dull ache in his side had slowed him down. He was lucky he was still young.

Not surprisingly, he found Emi speaking with the Viscountess at their divisional headquarters. He saluted both of them swiftly.

Soris came with her adjutant, a well-groomed Lebanese squadron commander Walker didn't recognize who about the same age as the rest of them. His uniform was identical to Walker's, except for the single large diamond on his rank insignia in place of four smaller ones like Walker, and that he'd worn his double-breasted jacket completely closed, revealing the gold colored edging along the right edge, whereas Walker folded his to the left, revealing the white lining underneath. Emi dressed as Walker had, except with a mirrored jacket, the normal custom for women.

"Walker, good to see you got out of that mess."

"Thank you, my Lady."

She smirked at the title of address, before extending a gloved hand at Emi, who looked at it and shook it. "It was good finally meeting you, Ogasawara. There aren't that many vicious warriors like us among the women in OZ, after all."

"Thank you, Colonel."

Walker glanced at the two. _This is a compliment?_

"If I don't see you before I leave, I look forward to you in space. It'll be brutal enough for you out there."

"Yes, ma'am. And please give some thought to my proposal."

The lieutenant colonel and the squadron commander excused themselves, leaving Emi and Walker in the same room. Walker glanced at her with an expression he hoped would convey what he was thinking. Apparently it did.

"Don't ask. Armonia has a reputation as a superb, unwavering pilot with no sense of fear. Not perfect qualities but very good ones for First Recon."

"Of course." He decided to cut to the point. "I wanted to thank you, Lieutenant Ogasawara."

She looked out the window at the night. Mirny looked like practically every city in Siberia at night: well lit, quiet, and short of cars. "You can still call me 'Emi', Walker."

He nodded a little. "Thank you, Emi."

"How do you feel?"

"Fine, except for some residual pain. I've felt much worse."

"That sounds like something you'd say, Walker," she said, leaning against the wall, crossing her arms. Her ceremonial katana tapped its sheath against the wall. "Should I call you that? Oswald? Or just Walker?"

He tried to take a natural pose. It was hard to do standing in the middle of a room, so as gracefully as he could, he sat on the edge of a nearby table. "I'm sure you know on my personnel file I'm still Oswald Walker. But it's an unfortunate name for an officer in the Alliance Special Troops, and even more so for a certified mobile suit engineer."

_After Colony 175, OZ builds the first mobile suit, then goes underground as a secret society. And while they haven't kept the monopoly on the technology, OZ still manufactures more mobile suits each year than the rest of the universe combined_, Emi thought as she looked at Walker, the young, unassuming engineer with brown hair and sharp, angular eyes underneath straight eyebrows. _If there was any way for a normal, working class kid to join that cabal, mobile suit engineering certification is probably it. Having 'OZ' on your belt buckle didn't mean a lot. _

"So just Walker?"

"Yes."

Emi gave him the sort of look that indicated he was under no obligation to speak further on the subject, so he didn't. He stood up and sniffed the air a little. _There's that smell. Expensive soap. _

"Excuse me, I need to check if orders have come in yet. I'll keep you informed. Good evening, Emi."

Walker excused himself. He thanked her, which meant he had nothing else to say, and he was very worried he might slip off the table or otherwise make a fool of himself. He could only hope Emi couldn't tell that was the case. Plus he expected if he was forced to just stare at her to maintain eye contact in this setting, something awkward was bound to happen.

**VII**

All it took was one cup of coffee to remind Walker of a few things—first, he was used to late nights, and second, unlike alcohol, a little caffeine went a long way.

Two hours after meeting Soris, Walker strolled into the hangar were OZ-00MS 'Tallgeese' was being stored, not because he expected to do any last-minute revisions or to be struck by an epiphany in the area of engineering, but because he wanted to see how the machine had fared against Gundam-01. Compared to the wreckage, quite well—some melted armor here and there, but otherwise, little damage, except for missing left arm, completely severed a meter past the ball point.

_That makes perfect sense. Tallgeese is made of titanium alloy. A beam saber would completely cut through it. When the Gundam got its hit in, it countered. clearly. _He recalled what he'd seen before being shot down, their beam sabers crashing against one another and the air around them visibly flickering as light refracted unevenly, the shuddering magnetic fields lighting up the night. It replayed perfectly in his mind.

If he hadn't been wearing his folding cap, his hair might be standing on end.

_What I don't understand is why Zechs would suddenly...miss like that. _Something happened, something that had distracted Zechs. He'd been winning that duel, he was certain, and then he suddenly lost an arm?

Walker ran his a hand along the severed arm, feeling the contours of melted and re-solidified titanium.

"'Evening, Chief."

He turned to see A. Mazuri sitting, legs crossed, with a tall glass bottle of Stolichnaya Premium on a nearby table. It was half empty.

"Really? Vodka?"

"Hardly. Just filtered water. You know the Russians are very picky about that sort of thing here?" he asked.

"Yakuts," he said, correcting him. Walker sat down opposite him while he poured into a plastic cup.

Taking it, Walker sniffed the cup before drinking.

"See? At least it's cold," Mazuri said. "Then again, nothing's like you expect it in the magical land of the Eurasian Union. When I was a kid, people talked about Siberia like it was the surface of the moon. And that the Russians _swam _in this stuff," he said, finishing pouring.

"Climate change will change those things." Walker eyed the books Mazuri rested his other arm on. "Technical manuals?"

"For the Leo. I mean, I know I'll probably never operate one again, but all the same." He poured another glass of water. "Ever ride one, sir?"

"Of course I have. I think every Speciali had. Even if the Aries was our most famous machine, we all trained on Leos. I also worked at Corsica, which manufactured them."

"No kidding?" he asked. "My whole career was in a Leo before 'Daybreak'. I suppose it's done everything I've asked. Or…something."

The two sat in silence, as Walker finished his cup of water. Finally, he spoke again. "So, not much luck with the nightlife?"

That got Mazuri going again. "I know we're in a city in Siberia, but come on. I'm pretty sure a third of the people left as soon as they heard the Gundams were coming. They must be enjoying our continued misery." He moved his arms and looked at the manuals. "Manuals aren't the worse thing to be reading. And they'll put me to sleep."

"Run into any obstacles?"

Mazuri raised an eyebrow, and Walker just shrugged back at him, brushing a little dust off his cape.

"It's not really something to brag about, but I've read those things backwards and forwards. I even contributed on one for the Aries. You should ask."

Mazuri seemed to consider it. "Fine, Lieutenant. Here's something I've always wondered about: could you tell me why we call them 'vernier' thrusters and rockets? What's the difference? Oh, and please keep the engineering parlance to a minimum."

Walker nodded, setting down the plastic cup. "All right, well…you understand that we're talking about propulsion systems, right?"

"Of course."

"Can you think of a machine equipped with vernier rocket engines that's not a mobile suit? An aircraft or a missile?"

"Well, sure, there's…well…" Mazuri paused. It actually gave Walker a little satisfaction to see an intelligent man like Mazuri stumped like this. "What about…no, wait…"

He looked at Walker, who continued. "You can't, because there are none. You think 'vernier' is its own technological standard, like a turbofan or radial engine, but it's not. Not exactly. The word 'vernier' comes from the Seventeenth Century French mathematician Pierre Vernier, who devised the Vernier Scale."

Mazuri nodded. "That does explain why we call it 'vernier' not 'ver-ni-er'," he said, using the proper French pronunciation and then pronouncing it as it would be read in English. "But the Seventeenth Century…that was six-hundred years ago, there was no space travel back then."

"No, there wasn't. The vernier thruster was originated as a secondary rocket engine on spacecraft in the Twentieth Century and Before Colony period. We have similar systems today, though they're now just called 'attitude control motors' or ATM. Vernier thrusters served as a secondary propulsion system for altitude control in conjunction with the main propulsion system of a spacecraft."

Mazuri frowned. "So, how does that apply to mobile suits?"

He nodded, and gestured to the mobile suit behind him. "That goes back to the first mobile suit, Tallgeese. Twenty years ago, after completion, the machine was put through the proving grounds. OZ found out that the complete models' greatest advantage over other conventional weapons that already existed was as rapid deployment weapon with enormous firepower. But to do that, you'd have to make it far faster than it could ever be from its own locomotion."

The ex-Alliance ace crossed his arms as Walker continued with his story. "It was also the only way to keep such a huge target from being shot apart by missiles and cannon fire on the battlefield. Against the original designers' recommendations, some new minds modified one of the two ATM banks from a prototype space cruiser, grafting those two huge engines onto the back of the first mobile suit's frame. When it was found that the Tallgeese could physically take the punishment of those two huge rocket engines, the literature started calling them 'vernier' thrusters or rockets, and here we are. It's why our Aries don't have any vernier thrusters, they use dedicated turbofan engines and aerodynamics could achieve flight and maneuverability. An Aries is lighter than some attack aircraft, which gives it excellent aerodynamics, among other things."

"So, they're called vernier engines even though they're the _main _propulsion device. Why not just put vernier thrusters on an Aries?"

"Well, rocket engines have progressed a long way in the last decade. But among other things, turbofans have vastly superior fuel economy. You remember Nairobi, when we fought for an hour, full power, on half-full tanks? Tallgeese, or any of the Gundams for that matter, can only manage a few minutes of full power flight."

"Explains why only one of the Gundams is actually capable of prolonged flight."

"And even it is relying heavily on gliding performance, hence the wings," Walker pointed out, referencing Gundam-01. "Every other Gundam, and all other mobile suits, would fall to the ground like an aerodynamic brick if they flew half the time Aries dodes. Because it's directly inspired by Tallgeese, the thruster pack on a Pioneer Leo is the same: just two smaller vernier rockets mounted on opposite ends. That's why they're called 'vernier thrusters'. It's the new Tauruses that will have a different arrangement, of an actual propulsion system and a separate vernier system. With all engines built directly into the frame."

"So I've seen. The new Taurus looks like one hell of a machine, should be able to give a Tallgeese a run for its money, without killing the pilot."

"Well, Taurus was intended for extraterrestrial deployment. There already exists a terrestrial variant on paper, the OZ-12AMS," he said, putting emphasis on the 'A'. "The primary difference will be the replacement of the primary rocket engine with a modified turborocket engine for any sort of sustained flight. It should handle comparably to the Aries, but with better thrust. However, there are already so many veteran divisions pilots using Aries, I doubt it'll serve as much of a replacement. By design, it'll be more controllable than Tallgeese, but the price of keeping from killing pilots is less violent performance."

"Kind of makes you wonder, doesn't it, sir?"

"Wonder about what?"

"If the reason we had 'Daybreak' in May was to keep the Alliance from being able to deploy the Taurus."

Walker scoffed a little. "Alliance Space Forces with a space-capable machine that could possibly out-turn a Gundam? It's a frightening thought."

"Especially for the Colonials. Grey Tauruses to replace purple Leos."

Walker nodded, rising to his feet. "Right. Still, as an engineer, the thoughts of a veteran Leo jockey inside a second generation mobile suit would have been _very _interesting."

Mazuri watched him leave from the table, walking towards the exit. "So what about me then?" he asked jokingly, as Walker stood up from the table.

"This is the first time we've spoken so long," Walker pointed out. "Hopefully I've taught you something, Mr. Mazuri. I'm not a very interesting person, so I have make up for it by being informative. Something a charmer like you wouldn't necessarily know."

Mazuri grinned at him, flashing those rows of straight, white teeth. "I see, _sir_." He watched Walker turn around and stroll out of the hangar. "Come back any time you'd like another drink, _Flight Lieutenant_," he jeered at the other man, who just waved back with one hand, not facing him.

**VI**

About ten minutes prior to Walker's conversation with A. Mazuri, he'd actually spoken again with Emi. He'd actually had to deliver her some documents, under more relaxed circumstances: when he'd arrived, he immediately suspected she'd had a few very large beers or something else an hour or so ago, before the local bars had closed, and seemed like she was ready to retire for the evening. The elder flight lieutenant sat, legs crossed, in a recliner, her boots propped up against the nearby coffee table. A red banner bearing the coat of arms of the Union of Eurasian Republics was tightly hung from one wall, which Walker stared at, hands behind his back.

_It's not actually a coat of arms, as it doesn't follow heraldic rules. It may be two-hundred years old, but it's obviously not a royal insignia of any sort, nor a family crest. The escutcheon in the center is a world globe with the Eurasian continent in the center, underneath the outline of a five-pointed red star. It is supported on either side by ears of wheat. A rising sun appears at the bottom. It does seem to match the other national symbols of Eurasia. _

"Walker?"

Walker immediately turned around and looked at Emi, who was propping her head up with one hand. "Didn't you have something for me?"

_I should avoid getting sidetracked analyzing things. _"Sorry, I was distracted. We don't have one of these in my room," he said, gesturing with his thumb at the sat down on the couch opposite of Emi, where she'd dropped her double-breasted jacket, and opened a folder. On the other wall, facing the banner, a black-and-white portrait of a Eurasian political leader from centuries ago stared over the room somberly, bald and with goatee. _Or one of those_.

Emi gestured at him with an open hand as he looked through the documents. "The First Recon Battalion will remain here at Mirny before joining the First Belarusian Front at Smolensk. The Front's objective is to surround and destroy the remainder of the Alliances' West Russian Air Army and East European Ground Divisions."

Emi leaned forward, her necklace dangling from her neck. "So several air force divisions, most of an Aries division, and several armored and mechanized infantry divisions and battalions. At least one Alliance Air Army, or whatever's left of it."

_Whatever you do, don't stare down her crop top. Sooner or later, she's going to call you on that. _Walker averted his eyes, gesturing a sheet of paper. "That Alliance Corps has managed to hold onto parts of far western Russia, Northern Belarus, and almost half of the territory of Latvia. Now, international cooperation has been practically impossible, frustrating progress."

Emi sorted through the sheets "Right, Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia want to reform the Baltic Federation, but they can't decide who gets what parts of the Alliance armed forces in their countries. Not to mention the ex-Alliance in Latvia is basically fighting a war with itself, with pro-Riga nationalists fighting pro-Alliance partisans. And everyone wants to make sure they take more equipment than the Russians and their side."

_No one can claim she doesn't follow the news. _"It's a complicated situation," he said in agreement. "The only international agreement there's been is that all the Union republics—including Belarus, Russia and Ukraine—want all Alliance troops in their territories out, and OZ is going to oblige them."

"I get it, you don't envy me," Emi said, looking through pages

He looked up at her. "Look at it this way, you'll probably only be there until the campaign ends or First Recon is needed in space. Then they'll send the rest of us to manage whatever's left."

Emi scoffed, and there was a knock in the direction of the door—by the empty doorframe, two flight officers stood side by side, in uniform, one with her arm nonchalantly across the other's shoulder. Walker noticed the friendlier-looking woman had a _bindi_, or red dot worn by men and women in South Asia, but probably best known for being worn by Indian women. She wore her black hair in a tight, disciplined-looking bun in the back of her head. Her arm was draped around the shoulder of a shorter comrade, an Asian woman with dark hair in a bob and wearing an eye patch.

It took a second, but Walker realized he recognized the unfriendly-looking woman—it was Tsujimoto, from Nairobi. Apparently, she'd been promoted.

"Look who I found, Emi!" the woman with the bindi said, smiling.

"Flight Officer Tsujimoto, congratulations on your promotion," he told her calmly, immediately standing up and approaching the door. The Japanese officer stared at him blankly, as did the woman with the bindi, who he didn't recognize, before squeezing her comrade a little more.

"She was just wandering outside in the dark," she said, leading Tsujimoto Nabiki to the table, and past Walker, who just stood with one hand extended. Emi smiled, rose to her feet, and embraced Tsujimoto briefly.

"Nabikichan, _genki_?" Emi asked, smiling at the shorter woman. Tsujimoto scoffed a little, said something in Japanese Walker didn't catch, before gesturing at her eye patch with one hand, as the two sat back down.

Walker shifted his open right hand very slightly before closing it and hiding it behind his back, trying to seem preoccupied. Emi noticed him and paused in her conversation with Tsujimoto, reverting to English. "Oh, Nabiki, I think you know Lieutenant Walker."

Walker nodded, keeping his hand behind his back. "We've met."

"And this is my second seat, Indira Syed Khan."

Syed Khan extended a hand towards Walker, who gratefully took it and shook it. "Pleasure, Lieutenant."

"Likewise, Officer."

"Walker here has fought against more Gundams than any other pilot in OZ, besides the Lightning Count," Emi said, gesturing with her head.

"Fighting is a charitable way of putting it. More like 'not dying' really."

Syed Khan laughed at what she thought was a joke. Walker just looked at her with his neutral, indecipherable expression, and she began to think it wasn't. "Wait, so you're Colonel Zech's Walker?"

"I suppose so, though I'm more an engineer by trade," he admitted. "Speaking of which, Ogasa...Emi, I'll give you back your evening, there are some maintenance issues I wanted to take a look at. If there's nothing else."

Emi just shrugged, so Walker took his leave. Syed Khan watched him leave, before turning back to her CO. "Is there something between you two?"

Emi turned to Syed Khan slowly. "…excuse me?"

"Is there?"

"No, he was here briefing me, he was in First Recon during Operation 'Amur', before he almost got shot down," she told her, deliberately and emphatically. "What are you..."

"I just thought, he's sort of…charming."

Emi stared at her, in disbelief.

"For an engineer."

More staring. "Who is incapable of showing emotion."

"I don't even know what that means," Emi said, starting to sound irritated.

"I really don't like the direction this conversation is going," Nabiki said, looking through the magazines on the coffee table.

Walker visited the hangar that housed Tallgeese, checked the repair itinerary postings and had his conversation with Mazuri, explaining the finer points of mobile suit propulsion. On his way out, he met Yoshitsune from the Maintenance Division, and the two chatted briefly.

"I'm not too worried about that," Yoshitsune acknowledged. "Actually, if you don't mind sir, could you do me a favor? Lieutenant Ogasawara requested her inventory updates as soon as possible, and since your both lieutenants…"

"Fine, fine, I understand, Yoshi. I might as well bother her for a third time this evening." He took the folder from Yoshi and returned the direction he came. By the time he returned, the conversation in the room had changed significantly.

Syed Khan was grinning from ear to ear. "Oh, like hell you don't care, Nabiki, that's a bloody lie. What are you going to do, wear that eye patch the rest of your life? No offense, but I don't think you can pull of that look."

Tsujimoto scoffed, as she flipped through the Russian-language celebrity and human-interest magazine, mostly looking at the photographs. Periodically she reached into a box of chocolate-covered biscuit snacks.

"What about black Alliance Leo jockey, what's-his-name? _He_ was handsome."

"Actually, I'm pretty certain he's in Walker's team now," Emi added, lying back in the couch, resting head on her arms. Tusjimoto said nothing, instead just rolling her eyes.

"Well, what about him? Or does he have a thing for scars?"

"We're not really together anymore," Tsujimoto told her, still flipping and snacking.

"Well, you did say it wasn't a long term thing," Emi pointed out. Tsujimoto nodded approvingly.

Syed Khan shook her head. "Then you should get it fixed before you go back on the market. I mean, come on, OZ will pay for the whole thing."

"I'd rather spend that money myself," she countered.

"Right, you and money. I forgot how sad your outlook on life was, and how shockingly self-content you are with yourself, in light of the fact. Come on, you had a lovely face, and you're throwing it all away over one eye. Why don't you go to whoever did Emi's work?"

Emi's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"Well, come on, they're pretty bloody amazing, Emi. Take it as a compliment. Though Nabiki's got plenty for her size. How does she do eyes?"

"Wait, _wait_," Emi interjected, standing up and leaning past Tsujimoto to Syed Khan. "What do you mean _work_? I haven't _had _surgery, Indira."

"Oh, come on, Emi. Kudos for all the exercise it took to get those legs, and you should be proud of them, but let's be real here," she told her, poking her in the crop top.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Emi snapped back at Syed Khan, making it clear she knew exactly what she meant. "They're _mine_, and they're _real_."

"Okay, I'm not saying they're the reason you joined the Specials. Apparently, just wanting to be filthy rich isn't a sad set of priorities in life, at least if you're Japanese," Indira began.

"I _said _they're mine! Look!" she snapped back at her, leaning across Tsujimoto's lap, causing her to drop her magazine. With one hand, she grabbed Syed Khan's collar and with the other, she pulled down on the top hem of her crop top down several centimeters. "Here, look and tell me!"

"Let go!"

"Then stop talking crap!" she told her angrily.

"Could you please get off me?" Tsujimoto asked both of them, increasingly annoyed. "No wonder they need a staff officer. Emichan, if you want to settle this, why don't you show Indira a picture from you on your swim team in secondary school? She's not a cosmetic surgeon, I'm guessing," she told the two of them, trying to wiggle free.

"You know you can overreact a little, Emi?

"You know you can be a little bit of a presumptuous ass?" she countered.

"Excuse me, Emi?"

All three turned from the couch they shared to see Walker standing by the empty doorframe, file in one hand and knocking on the wall with the other.

"Walker, how long were you there?" Emi immediately asked, her voice very controlled. Likewise, Walker's expression was as controlled as usual, as though he was checking inventories or his life insurance policy.

"Only for about ten seconds," he told her, entering the room and holding the file at her. Emi, still pulling down her crop top, looked at Walker and quickly took the file, sitting up straight.

"The inventory report from Maintenance. Good night ladies," he said again, promptly walking out the door.

Tsujimoto sat up straight again, as Indira looked at the two of them and chuckled. "Wow, that almost got a little awkward," she said snidely.

Emi just put the file over her face and began striking it with her other hand, saying nothing.

**VII**

Walker wasn't the only one running around. After midnight, Emi was still with Tsujimoto and Syed Khan. They ended up looking for alcohol after the later had pointed out that they _were _in Russia, more or less, and neither bothered arguing with her. To their surprise, vodka, the famed spirit of the country, was very hard to obtain: all the stores were closed, but more unreasonably the sergeant on midnight shift at the Red Army postal exchange flat-out refused to sell them a single bottle of Stolichnaya or anything else for that matter, and when asked, gave a depressingly long list of reasons in heavily-accented English as to why. So, they went back to the divisional headquarters, where they found OZ Internal Army warrant officer, a young Asian man who had likely left the Buddhist clergy, given his shaved head and nine burned dots on his forehead, who _did _have two bottles of vodka, albeit of some local brand none of them had heard of.

"You know he wouldn't give that to us."

"What, his oaths don't require generosity?" Tsujimoto asked.

After three rounds of rock-paper-scissors, all of which Emi lost, Tsujimoto and Syed Khan watched like criminals around the corner while she sighed deeply.

"Two minutes."

Indira tapped her wristwatch. "One minute, ma'am."

Emi closed her eyes and clenched her jaw for a few minutes, mentally preparing herself. She opened her eyes, trying to keep them 'softer' along with her expression as a whole. She applied her tube of cosmetic war paint to her lips quickly, then pulled down both the straps of her crop top over her shoulders so that its tautness held it in place, then turned the corner.

"Oh, I've missed this. Like a solar eclipse, but entertaining," Syed Khan whispered as they watched her from around the corner. Tsujimoto nodded, grinning mischievously. Emi walked up to the warrant officer's desk, pressed her chest against the desk, ran a finger along his chin, and said something too softly for them to hear. The now extremely distracted warrant officer just stared back at her, visibly sweating in his uniform, as gestured to the bottles in a box behind his desk. He just nodded stupidly, so she took one, patted him on his bald head, and walked down the hall back to the corner, fixing her top.

Her expression had 'hardened ' to what it frequently looked like by the time she reached them and tossed them the bottle. "I hate you two. But maybe a third of a liter of vodka will change that."

Syed Khan caught it. "I think we can split the rest, ma'am."

Emi's mood improved after finishing her half of the bottle. The two exchanged increasingly incoherent stories—though it was mostly Syed Khan and Tsujimoto doing the talking as one lied on the floor and the other on the couch, wrinkling their uniforms.

The F/L was nearly asleep when her mobile went off, beeping a musical tune, and she snatched it.

"What time is it?" Syed Khan asked drunkenly.

"Late," Tsujimoto answered.

Emi glanced at the screen of her mobile. "Have to go."

"What?" Syed Khan asked, surprised.

"Briefing."

"You're joking."

Emi burped a little, covering her mouth, then spoke. "This is what _senior _officers do when they're not fighting. That means majors and lieutenant colonels in the Alliance, and F/L and S/C in OZ. Go to briefings, tell important people important things, drink with their so-called friends, and then go to other briefings."

She washed her face in the sink, fixed her long hair, removed her jewelry, pulled her uniform top, cape and sword, all while the other two remained lying about. They were mumbling softly in their sleep when she left, trying to appear normal. _Let's see how well I can feign sobriety. _

She'd been asked by the two lieutenant colonels to debrief them on a particular colony, which she'd researched prior to Operation 'Amur'. By the time she arrived at the upscale office where Zechs Merquise and Soris Armonia were waiting, she was almost certain she didn't appear drunk in the least. At least she could clearly hear the two speaking through the door.

Chewing a breath mint and taking one last deep breath, she knocked twice with a gloved hand before opening the door.

"Thank you for coming so late, Lieutenant Ogasawara. Sorry about this briefing."

"It's no trouble, sirs," she lied, closing the door after her. The two were sitting in ornate chairs in front of the fireplace. There was a table between them with some liquor in a rectangular, glass bottle. _How did they get alcohol so easily? _

Soris nodded and continued. "Anyway, OZ always intended that, after the revolution, the veterans of the Special Mobile Suit Troops would form the core of OZ's new forces. But most Speciali served on Earth, not in the colonies—so Leo companies would make up the new Space Leo forces, and Aries squadrons would make up the new Taurus units. Piloting an Aries isn't a lot like a Taurus, but it's closer than a ground pounder's experience. Speciali who were in the Alliance Pioneers will switch to Tauruses as well."

"What about OZ's own Leo squadrons?"Zechs asked.

"There are never enough pilots," she admitted.

"It gets worse," Zechs said, somberly. He looked at Emi waiting in front of the door, perfectly still.

"Lieutenant Ogasawara," he said. "I appreciated your help on the battlefield yesterday. Please."

"Thank you, sir." Emi just gave a very slightly nod of her head, as she approached the holographic display in the center. "Colonel Armonia, will you be assuming command of the First Recon Battalion when we're deployed into space?"

Soris cocked her head and smiled dryly at a no-nonsense but tired looking Emi. "I've thought about it. But First Recon's got a reputation for a high mortality rate, and maybe I'm afraid for my own wellbeing," she said, running a hand through her orange-blonde hair wryly.

"I see."

"Not to interrupt, but the briefing?" Zech asked.

Emi synched her mobile with the projector, a progress bar appearing shortly before being filled, and the lights flickered and adjusted themselves. "Yes, sir. The briefing for Colony L1-D-120, the home to the Extraterrestrial Military High Command of the Alliance Armed Forces, in other words Space Forces Headquarters. The Alliance believed _Barge _to be insufficiently secure prior to its completion, and kept its headquarters in this American colony."

Switching through a few options with her phone, a fuzzy faux-3D representation of the cylindrical colony and the surrounding minefield appeared in the center of the room.

Soris, the resident space officer, put a hand to her lips. "If you remember your history, in AC 149, the Assembly passed the Shanghai Protocol, which returned jurisdiction of space colonies to the founding nations. But by that year, the United States of America no longer existed, so the Alliance retained direct control over it as an 'international colony.' Since then, it's been the Alliances' outer space bastion, regardless of progression of the war."

"It's easy to forget that politics among the colonies are as complicated as between nations on Earth," Zechs observed. Soris just smirked, looking at the hologram.

"OZ's space doctrine calls encouraging the Colonials to form their own federation, a nation of colonies. But even with the Alliance's fall, D-120 considers itself the voice of Earth in space. It's also home the three remaining organized Alliance Space Armies."

"Who's in command?"

The hologram changed to a photograph. "Brigadier General Gwinter Septim. Son of the last Alliance Space Forces commander-in-chief, he's both the ranking officer and the elected chief representative."

"Before his father was killed by the Gundams at New Edwards, three generations of Septim men kept D-120 in their pockets. The remaining two will never give it up, nor will they disarm. They and the rest of the Alliance in space will fight to the last man, and I intend to oblige them," Soris said candidly.

_She sounds like she's looking forward to it. But what does that mean for the rest of First Recon, I wonder? _Emi nodded politely. "Everything else is in my report. If you'll excuse me, I need to make preparations to leave for reassignment."

Zechs nodded at Emi, who saluted again before leaving the room.

"Not enough pilots, huh?"

"No, there are not. Have you seen the estimation reports from the General Staff for space deployment? They're asking for hundreds of Leos for distribution among the Colonial militias. Leo production for Earth has ended, only to resume for space."

"What are you expecting?" Zechs asked.

"I'm expecting, in a matter of weeks, for hundreds of colonial pilots to defend their homes in our old machines. And die for them. Against what, I'm not entirely certain."

She sighed. "And OZ will never be the same."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note:<strong>_

_So this was my first 'recap' chapter, though there was more sorting out of things than recapping. And good god, it was a long one (perhaps the longest chapter yet). Those of you who liked longer chapters might be changing your minds after this. I guess recap episodes of any series feel pretty long too. _

_I ended up choosing this route because I'm still finalizing details of a few aspects of the plot in the coming 'episodes', but I did want to establish/hint at a few things. Of course, it ended up spiraling out of control anyway, and things got removed: for example, the appearance of a new character (namely, a young woman Walker actually had a physical relationship with, if you can believe that). That will all appear in the next chapter._

_I wanted to demonstrate that, even during a period of relatively 'nothing' happened, Gundam-wise, officers like Walker and Emi ended up running around nonstop doing the busywork that characterizes military life, from what I understand. Of course, being in a fictional setting, some of the busywork is a little...different. _

_Next chapter will be shorter. And perhaps even have some combat. In the meantime, hopefully you enjoyed my incredibly lame attempts at character-establishing humor (and hopefully you've also gotten used to it by now). _


	13. The Whereabouts of Glory

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 13 **– The Whereabouts of Glory****

Fearful of a repeat of the nuclear exchanges that that characterized the pre-Colony period, in After Colony 133 the most powerful nations of the world elected a successor government to the United Nations Organization. Their initiative, echoing through history, allows the formation of the United Earth Sphere Alliance as the first federal government over humankind on Earth and in space, in the interests of "justice" and "peace."

The year is After Colony 195. In the summer, Operation 'Meteor' has stalled, as the Gundams have abruptly halted their terror attacks on Earth's military installations, for now. For the Gundams, the end of the epoch of the Earth Alliance has meant little—only OZ's threat to wage on the Gundams' own terms has given them pause.

In North America, as elsewhere, the sixty-two years of Alliance rule left their mark on the relationship between the numerous sovereign states and federation. The most powerful of these, the Federal States of America, controlled the province of Ontario up to the 45th parallel, since its short war with the Dominion of Canada decades earlier, in the chaotic early days of the Alliance.

People are often a product of history. Young men like Oswald Walker and David Bishop, born in Windsor, Ontario, called themselves Windsorites first and North Americans second. Few called themselves "Canadians." They were _de facto _Federal Americans.

Flight Lieutenant Walker sat in the passenger cabin of a Tupolev supersonic transport aircraft, reading the international section of the newspaper _Izetsiya_'s English edition, printed by local government. You couldn't believe everything you read in the news, but all the same, burying your head in the sand was not a good solution.

_Before I was born, the Federal States, the Christian States, and Californian and other republics got the go ahead from the Alliance to form a new supranational federation, to be called the United States of North America, in honor of great superpower of the pre-Colony era. It would include annexed Canadian, Mexican and Caribbean territories. From Durango in the south and Windsor to the north to Los Angeles in the west and New York in the east._

He flipped the page. _And then 'Daybreak' happened. The British Monarchy is a major constituent of the Romefeller Foundation, and encouraged Canada to abandon its ceasefire with the United States. And now, North America is once again at war._

David Ackerson Bishop, sitting next to Walker in the aisle seat, glanced at the headline on the back. "'Ontario Liberated.' You mind if I read that after you?"

Walker folded the newspaper and presented it to him. "Go ahead."

Dac took the newspaper while Walker glanced outside the window at the western Mongolian countryside. He'd never been here before, but he knew a little about it. The in-flight magazine had told him some more, for whatever that was worth.

_The Republic of Mongolia. One of the constituent states of the Eurasian Union. Along with Ukraine, the so-called 'frontier republics' which exercise the most political autonomy from the center of government west of the Urals. Population of about seven million, based around agriculture and mineral extraction. This is one of the places where the most basic components in mobile suit manufacturing—copper, titanium, aluminum, and germanium—are mined. Another sparsely-populated country._

"I guess there's not much of interest to us here," he said to himself, looking back and forth at the rows of OZ officers packed into the aircraft. "Kanna, I don't suppose you've ever been to China, have you?" he asked, glancing past Dac to look across the aisle. Flight Officer Kaneshiro was sound asleep, while past him, Mazuri was listening to music through earphones.

"Never mind," he mumbled, staring back at the seat in front of them. As the aircraft crossed the border between Mongolia and China, Walker squinted—he could see flashes of light in the distance, further west, and the cloud cover in that direction darkened with what must have been smoke.

"Is that a battle?" an officer in front of him asked as he tried to get a better look.

"I think it is!" another chimed.

"We're not in any danger, right?"

"No way, this is secure Chinese airspace. I think."

**II**

Following the coup d'etat by OZ, the Earth Sphere Alliance military entered a state of uncertainty. Their communications severed, local commanders ordered their troops to remain confined to their bases without an understanding of what, in fact, had transpired. The Alliance had initially been formed to minimize violent conflict between nations, however, with its expansion of military power, the Alliance increasingly determined military policy for all countries. OZ now intended to free the many countries that had been forced to capitulate to the Alliance in this manner. But it was known that OZ had been responsible for the Alliance's military supremacy through the introduction of mobile suits. Many questioned the Order's intentions, suspecting that in the coming months, conditions would remain the same, with OZ now in control.

"Comrades, welcome to Dongfeng Cosmodrome."

The OZ forces at Jiuquan, near the border with the "Republic" of Xinjiang, as it was now called, got straight to the point—as soon as Walker and the forty or so other officers arrived at the huge spaceport, they were ushered into a briefing. Then again, it had only been a two hour flight anyway.

The briefing was given Squadron Commander Wen Li Zhiang, who came from the body of ex-Alliance veteran commanders invited into OZ after 'Daybreak' because of their experience. Since OZ had been dominated by engineers and pilots, both very young, most older OZ officers had a similar background: the limited, almost entirely theoretical experience in national military forces, followed by a crash course in Alliance or the Speciali.

_Wen was in the Alliance for more than ten years. He was in the PLA before that._Walker sat in the back row, with the other flight lieutenants. After pacing around the cafeteria with broad steps for a minute, scoping out the new arrivals, Wen stood in the front, a muscular man in his early forties, hands behind his back. "Now, I know all you young men and women have experience fighting the ex-Alliance. But this is not Kenya, or Luxembourg, or Cuba, or Mexico. This is Xinjiang Autonomous Region, China."

He pointed out a window. "Past the base fence are our lines. And past those, is Alliance territory. A whole Alliance corps has consolidated its strength and pushed back the local military lines to this port, the only major space port within two-thousand kilometers."

In the distance, beyond what Walker could see, there was a battle being waged: artillery and missiles exchanged, aggressive pushes and defense withdrawals, on a near-constant basis.

"You might think the Alliance no longer exists. In space it does. And in Xinjiang, it does. A military coup put a junta led by one Colonel Thomas Bundt, now a self-proclaimed lieutenant general. Though he's an American, Bundt counts on the loyalty of several company-grade Alliance Army officers who are genuinely interested in establishing an independent Xinjiang as an enclave to the old political order. And they have the equipment and men to do it."

Wen changed the service photograph and dossier of Bundt to a map of western China. "I'm commander of OZ's Chinese initiative, of which you newcomers and the surviving units out of Xinjiang are part of. As soldiers of the Order of the Zodiac, I expect you to understand all of this immediately. Because of this, we operate on a constant state of emergency. Our objective is to quickly deplete all of Bundt's military strength and force a capitulation, so the civilian government can be reestablished to the agreement of Ürümqi and Beijing. We cannot count on the Chinese military, who have above-average hardware but no practical military experience. Bundt's power is entirely a matter of his combat assets, and we have planned several strategic operations to deprive him of those…"

_I suppose all senior officers enjoy a good old-school strategy briefing. I was never fond of them, I think. But they are necessary_, Walker thought, as he sat in the back, hands behind his head.

Dongfeng was, as to be expected, packed with actual Chinese military personnel, primarily of what they called the "People's Liberation Army Air Forces," and what everyone else just called the Chinese Air Force. It was the country's premiere space port, and just happened to have the unfortunate quality of being near the border of the Xinjiang Autonomous Region, which had never been a problem in the past.

Separate from his team, who got to sit in the barracks or look at the huge two-hundred year old museum-piece space rockets set up around the grounds over little metal plaques, Walker was summoned by one of the PLAAF officers, Captain Huang. Huang was ten years older than Walker, but still young, attractive, and focused. She was even friendly, and spoke excellent English, but there was something some would call "ruthless" about her. Then again, like most her comrades, prior to 'Daybreak' the closest she'd ever been to a war zone was watching Alliance pacification campaigns on television.

"Your Aries haven't arrived yet," she told him, pronouncing 'Aries' awkwardly with two separate syllables. "You're not alone. Unless one of the airlifters arrives very soon, the entire battalion will have to use the ground machines."

"I see," he said, assuming she meant OZ-06MS 'Leo' mobile suits. _Lucky us._

"They're modern variants, which is more than the rebels can say." The two strolled past one of the converted hangars, where sixteen-meter tall Leo mobile suits stood fixed in gantry racks. Most were already cobalt blue, but a few were being still in the process of being electrostatically painted OZ colors.

"The commander will tell you more. He wanted to speak with you personally."

"I understand."

Wen was in his 'office'—part of the converted hangar cordoned off with prefabricated walls and furniture—lifting weights. Without his hunter green uniform and blouse, he was very muscular.

Both Huang and Walker stood at the door. "Sir!"

"I see you, Huang, thank you," he said before returning to grunting.

Huang left, leaving Walker at the door waiting. He looked around at the furniture and décor—bookshelves, maps, the usual, along with a folded, damaged flag of the People's Republic of China, encased in a glass frame. There was a plaque underneath it, in indecipherable Chinese print.

Wen finished with his weights apparently. "Walker, was it? You're the third 'Walker' I've had under my command in as many years."

"It's a common name," he said, trying not to sound apologetic.

"Sit down, Lieutenant."

Wen pulled his blouse on over his undershirt, then pulled on his double-breasted jacket. He left it unbuttoned. "It's at my age when military officers start to get soft," he explained. "You get soft, and OZ will tear you to pieces with zero warning."

He sat down at his desk. "You wondering why you're here?"

Walker assumed he meant 'in this office.' "Yes, sir."

"Good. Honest. I try to speak personally with all the F/Ls, but that's not always possible. Xinjiang is unforgiving; full-out war. Like the old days, before the Alliance used mobile suits to crush resistance everywhere, well before your time," he explained. To Walker's surprise, he didn't sound condescending.

"I heard you were in the Special Recon Battalion briefly. Not bad." He leaned in a little. "Special Recon's one of the few places you'd get real war since the mid-Seventies, when I first joined. Everywhere else, it's just the usual 'interdiction' and 'ground attack' business, even with the Specials. Of course, the Gundams and 'Daybreak' changed all that nowadays."

"Actually, I was only in Recon for two missions," Walker admitted. "Though I did face the Gundams on two occasions."

"I heard that too. I'm not sure if you're very lucky, or very unlucky, actually." Wen cocked at his head. "Which do you think?"

Walker wished he could have responded immediately. "I prefer to take all the precautions I can."

Wen just stared at him and smirked a little. "In Xinjiang, we do things differently. Combat recon's in a half-hour, have your team ready, you're one of the first four going out. And lose the cape, Walker, this isn't one of your Luxembourg philosophy retreats."

Rising from the seat, Walker saluted as Wen dismissed him. "Yes sir."

**III**

Gunther Mieser wore the normal working uniform of OZ engineers and technicians, solid dark grey overalls with a Junior Lieutenant's plastic rank insignia on his lapels and OZ's terrestrial emblem on the sleeves. It was much more practical to work in than a service uniform. He'd been in the technical and engineering services his whole military career, so there was little reason to wear his hunter greens.

It was early morning at Lake Victoria, at the No. 2 Large Aircraft Hangar. As usual, he was one of the first people in the hangar that morning—then again, this particular hangar was largely restricted in its access.

_Which means long hours. You can either have some done in secrecy, or you can have it done quickly. Not both. _Mieser yawned in front of one of the back doors into the hangar, before unlocking the door with a key he usually wore around his neck. Stepping through, he entered a small office, where the lights flickered and a hidden computer scanned his face and upper chest immediately.

There was a beep, as the door at the other end of the office unlocked electronically, a small green on a nearby panel turning from red to green. Putting his coffee cup and files in the same hand, he walked to the other door, passing through it and flipping a switch on a nearby circuit breaker box.

The likes came on through the large hangar, revealing its contents: the components of Gundam-01, the variable geometry mobile suit made of Gundanium alloy and manufactured in the Colonies. Every part scavenged from the Siberian countryside had been cataloged and delivered by airlifter to the Lake Victoria Academy, where Zechs planned to have it rebuilt.

_Zech's behavior would be rather suspicious in any organization besides OZ, a secret society dedicated to mobile suit development and manufacturing. Instead, it's merely "rather suspicions." Still, Zechs must have his reasons. He's Zechs Merquise, the Lightning Count._

Like all OZ mobile suit engineers, Mieser had been trained in mobile suit salvaging as well as manufacturing, and he believed he had some idea of the enormous task ahead of him. Walking to a nearby notebook computer arranged on a desk, he turned it on brought up a file containing the entirety of technical data OZ possessed on the first Gundam spotted on Earth. It was largely the same data he'd seen a few days ago, when he, Walker, Nichol and Clark had composed a briefing for Lady Une.

"So, where to begin?" he asked himself as he pressed down on a key, flipping through page after page of diagrams and charts. He continued scanning while sitting down at the folding chair at the aluminum table, only to fall on his posterior against the hard floor, almost spilling his coffee.

Mieser immediately stood up and looked around, then at the spot he'd fallen down on. The chair was on the other side of the table, next to a satellite radio. He stared at the chair, then at the empty spot on the other side of the table. The chair had _definitely _been moved.

Setting down his coffee, he walked around the table, picked up the chair, and dropped it in its original place, then sat down on the chair and tried to ignore everything that just happened, as he looked through at the screen. He was able to take his mind off the matter when he noticed something particularly odd.

He stood up and walked over to the main body of the Gundam, switching on an industrial lamp and angling it at the cockpit and massive searchlight eye.

"What is that?" He frowned. "Walker, whatever you're doing, right now, I wish you were here. You might actually be able to make something out of this."

He sighed and walked away, leaving the lamp and its stand in its place. Behind him, a pair of slender legs emerged from the cockpit, followed by an entire person, landing softly on her sneakers. The young woman who had just emerged from the cockpit stretched her arms over her head, arched her back, then shook out her abundant blond hair.

Mieser looked at the various paper printouts he'd brought with him into the hangar, still frowning. Reaching for his coffee, a thought occurred to him: he remembered the conversation he'd had with Walker at Mirny.

_"It's just a normal analysis, isn't it? If so, of course you can handle it. You've done a fine job with Tallgeese's maintenance so far, I can see that."_

_"I appreciate the vote of confidence, sir, but I think Zechs would really appreciate your hand in this."_

_"Except I'm a lieutenant now. I haven't been a full-time engineer for years. I don't think I'd be any good at either if I tried to be both."_

_"I suppose you have a point there, sir."_

He took a sip of coffee. _But Walker knows this isn't just going to be some analysis project. He must have known what Zechs had in mind. Was that an excuse just so he wouldn't have to deal with all this?_

"Either way, I wish Walker were here," he said aloud, before taking another sip.

"That makes two of us," a woman's voice chipped in behind him. Some coffee went down the wrong way in Mieser's throat, and he coughed and hacked until the obstruction was clear and he turned around. In front of him, about two-thirds of the way to the Gundam's chest, a slender woman in a baggy grey jumpsuit was engaged in morning calisthenics.

Mieser stared at her back her as she stretched about, confused. Finally, he spoke. "Who are you?"

She looked over her shoulder at him. She was a year or two younger than he was, with blue-green eyes, and long, straight blond hair in multiple ponytails and long pigtails. "You can't tell?"

Mieser was starting to lose patience. His hand went for the closed-circuit radio attached to his belt. "No, I can't."

The girl sighed, finished her stretches, and strolled over to him, a hand rooting around in the baggy jumpsuit. For a second, it occurred to Mieser she might just pull out a small handgun and shoot him, and there wasn't anything he could do about it.

Instead, she pulled out a small folded stack of blue and white papers, which she held at arms' length towards him.

"Huh?"

"My credentials, dummy."

Mieser managed to frown some more and took the sheet, unfolding them as he held his cup. They were actually the regular OZ certification documents for mobile suit engineering, complete with the authentic stamps, class numbers and the signature of chair of the OZ Military Engineering Technical Academy at the city of Toyota, Japan.

"I'm here for this," she said, pointing at the Gundam in pieces behind her.

"You're kidding, right?"

"What?" the girl asked, sounding more annoyed now. "You don't believe me?"

"Well, you're not I expected."

"Maybe you should have checked the list more closely," she countered.

The hit a nerve. _Zechs told me to begin_quietly _gathering all the specialists and engineers I'd need to rebuild a Gundam. Even with all the fabrication going around at different locations, we'll still need a skeleton team here at Nairobi. I probably should have realized I got an engineering request from someone who doesn't really know anything_about _engineering._"I…I guess I should have…Miss…Bishop," he said, looking over the sheet.

She snatched her credentials out of his hand. "Rani Bishop. So, yeah, you got a lot of work to do here, huh?" she asked, surveying the components lying around the hangar.

Rani glanced back at him. "Please don't tell me I'm the only person you called."

Mieser recomposed himself. "Of course not. It's just that this is a sensitive project…"

"Can't imagine why."

"…and we want to keep it that way." He stood behind Rani, looking down at her. "Maybe you're not the best choice for this operation."

"What are you going to do? Kick me out?" she asked him sarcastically. "I _kinda' _already know what's going on here. Not very good security."

"And what would that be?" he mumbled.

"OZ _finally _destroyed one of the Gundams, and wants to rebuild it, here at Lake Victoria."

Mieser stared at her. That was almost entirely correct.

"I'm right, aren't I?" she asked, grinning mischievously.

Mieser sighed again. "Let me show you what we know so far. Follow me."

Rani apparently took this as a small victory, and was practically skipping behind Mieser as he quickly led her to an office. "When did you get in, anyway? This hangar's supposed to be secure."

"Not that secure. Last night. The air conditioning was on."

"Right, air conditioning. _That _makes sense."

**IV**

Ninety kilometers was a lot to cover in ground-confined mobile suit, so OZ ferried its combat troops to the Alliance's advanced pocket, the farther point of their advance from the Xinjiang Autonomous region, on the typical wheeled mobile suit carriers. They were now some distance west of Jiuquan.

His cockpit hatch still open, Walker affixed his mobile suit pennant into the seat behind him, then fell into the seat and buckled his restraints. He closed the cockpit and donned his radio set. "This is Foxtrot Actual. Lift me up."

With impressive efficiency, their machines were raised, and deployed with five other teams, for a total of twenty-four mobile suits—all cobalt blue OZ-06MS5 mobile suits, 'Leo-E' as they were sometimes called. The Leo-E represented the most modern variants of the Leo that were commonly used by the frontline Alliance units and the Special Mobile Suit Troops. In effect, they were entirely new models whose manufacture demanded retooled factories, even if they were cosmetically indistinguishable from other Leos. Any more modern Leo mobile suit was most likely a custom-job for a high ranking pilot.

Walker looked out at the semi-arid desert stretched out across them, a mountain range in the distance. "This is great terrain for tanks. Not so much for us."

"_Why's that?_" Dac asked over the channel.

"_Because our visual range is great, but we're also the tallest thing for fifty clicks,_" Mazuri explained for Walker.

"Yes, that."

Wen spoke over the channel. "_This really couldn't be much simpler. Twelve-hundred meters up the expressway is the Yumen Township wind farm. Up the road from that is Yumenzhen. In the area is the Alliance forward headquarters. Your targets are all hostile military assets, as well as the Alliance HQ._"

"_Command, this is Centurion Actual. I just wanted to ask, if you know where the targets are, why don't you just hit them all with missile strikes._"

"_That's a_very _interesting question Centurion Actual. And the reason is we don't have enough missiles. Would you like to guess what we do have enough of?_" When asked, taunting him.

"This is going to be very interesting," Walker mumbled, undoing a collar button. A Leo-E used the standard OZ mobile suit cockpit, just like an OZ-07AMS 'Aries'. His model was mostly distinguishable because it carried a 105 mm autocannon and a high-mounted shield. The adjacent suits carrier the same autocannon or the full-size beam rifle. Many also mounted shields. On the other hand, there were no OZ-06MSK present, the "command" variant with shoulder-mounted cannons. Primarily the Alliance had used those, as they tended to attract a lot of attention on the battlefield with their unique profile. They'd never caught on in the _Speciali_. OZ might have built all the machines, but they did not use all of them.

"_What's Centurion Actual complaining for? Centurion and Beagle are the ones carrying the dober guns._"

Walker glanced at his starboard display. Just as Mazuri had pointed out, the eight machines in Centurion and Beagle sections had four equipping magazine-loaded siege cannons, probably in 370 mm or 360 mm caliber. The Gundam attacks had popularized "dober guns" as one of the few terrestrial weapons that could effectively knock a Gundam on its back, but they were functionally not very useful: they were overkill for most targets, difficult for a Leo to handle, and were only really useful for things like hardened bunker walls or warships. All the machines carrying dober guns also mounted shields, as shields carried beam sabers: in a mobile suit battle, without the cannon, you were unarmed.

"_That's what we've got beam sabers for_," Kanna said over the channel.

"Cut the chatter. Foxtrot section, move up on me. Wait till the artillery barrage ends."

In the distance, they could hear artillery raining down on the Alliance positions down the road, probably supplied by the PLA Ground Forces. It rained for a few minutes, as the remaining mobile suits got into position on the perimeter, a line of blue towers bristling with dark grey cannons. The echoing stopped.

"_HQ to all call signs. Advance!_"

"_Affirmative!_"

"Acknowledged," Walker said, leaning forward on the throttle easily. _Let's see if I'm too 'good' for a Leo._

The whole column began its steady advance at what was termed 'ahead full'—the upper-end of walking speed in a Leo. Their primary concern was to keep advancing while keeping ranks and avoiding a possible ambush, though the terrain made an ambush extremely unlikely. More likely they'd be targeted by long-ranged fire from artillery or ground-fired missiles.

"_All call signs, this is AWACS _Snow Crane. _We're showing that you're clear for at least twenty kilometers in all directions._"

"_Acknowledged._"

Kanna sat in the cockpit, her head coming a little close to touching the ceiling, in her usual red tank top. "Anyone think they'll show?" she asked over the local channel.

"_This is a lot of trouble just to cover some ground. They'll show._"

"If you say so."

"F/L, what do you expect they'll have?" she asked.

Walker's response took a second, indicating he had thought it through. "_Very likely what we have. Autocannons, beam cannons, beam carbines. Maybe a few bazookas, but I wouldn't expect big guns. Mostly HEAM. Keep the chatter to a minimum._"

She sighed. "Sorry, _Taichō_." Walker was referring to HEAM warheads, or high-explosive anti-mobile suit, which were among the oldest and most common 105 mm warheads used by mobile suits, contrasted to lower caliber, but more expensive and more effective APFSDS kinetic penetrators used in the Aries' chain rifle. HEAMS, despite its name, were actually effective against a variety of soft and hard targets, thanks to their high caliber and explosive charge, allowing you to target things like pillboxes and light vehicles. By contrast, the more lethal APFSDS penetrators were much better at mobile suit killing, or against more heavily armored targets, but would ineffectually pass through large, unarmored targets or just make gopher-sized holes in infantry trenches.

This was common knowledge, not just to engineers like Walker, but all trained mobile suit pilots. Kanna might not be able to dissect her machine, or this Leo, but she knew that much.

"_AWACS _Snow Crane _to all call signs. We're got movement, from heading three-zero-zero. At least thirty contacts._"

"Jesus Christ, _thirty_?" Dac asked, his voice starting to sound frantic.

"_Cool it, Foxtrot 1-4. That's including support vehicles and tanks. Foxtrot Section, change heading to three-zero-zero and maintain speed. Archer Section, cover us._"

"_Acknowledged, Foxtrot Actual. You sure you want to split the line?_"

"_Affirmative, Arrow Actual."_

"_AWACS _Snow Crane _confirms forty-two contacts from the northeast, twenty mobile suits and twenty-six ground vehicles. All other call signs, cover the other side and watch for them from the west. All weapons restrictions are lifted. Good hunting._"

"_Beagle Actual acknowledges._"

**V**

It took a few hours, but the No. 2 Large Aircraft Hangar was filled with engineers on the job. It wasn't as though they had slept in late: except for one, none of them had slept in the hangar, and in order to remain discreet, all of them had to go through the usual morning routines, including breakfast, before checking into the hangar.

Mieser and the chief electrician looked the design schematics, projected onto a screen by an old-fashion digital projector. It even simulated a clicking noise every time the image changed.

"See, you can tell just by looking at the reactor design that we're dealing with some serious power. That being said, an ultracompact reactor that can output three megawatts? Not impossible. One of the new Taurus units outputs a comparable amount. Dry, a Taurus weighs more."

"So we could use a modified Taurus fusion reactor?"

The electrician ran a hand through his dark hair, thinking about it. "Maybe, but that's not the problem. The problem is power _distribution._ Gundam Zero-One's power distribution channels not only have to be rebuilt from scratch, and the servomotors get their incredible response time from that."

"In its first encounter, Gundam Zero-One wasn't able to physically overcome the mechanical force exerted by a Leo at full power from zero. The Gundams have great reaction times, but unless they've got a running start, they're not that much stronger than conventional first-generation mobile suits."

The electrician nodded. "I've seen the Taurus proving grounds footage—a Taurus's servomotors at full power rip a Leo's manipulator out of its socket. But not starting from zero. The Gundams are stronger, but not much stronger."

"Can I share my theory?"

The two turned to see the short Rani standing behind them, the severed end of a two-centimeter-thick copper cable in one of her hands.

"Go ahead."

"I think you're right, Mieser. The Gundam's have extra power, but they also have faster-acting servomotors. And they can only use them because of Gundanium's higher tensile strength. Or else they might…you know, rip their own arms off."

Mieser thought about it. "I suppose that would be a convenient explanation. One of the leg servomotors is still largely intact, would you mind taking a look at it?" he asked the electrician.

"Sure, I'll go right now."

Rani watched the electrician leave before speaking again. "By the way, Gunther. I think I figured out how you're going to do it."

"Do what?"

"Rebuild a Gundam in complete secrecy." She leaned in, her eyes now mischievous. "See, you're going to fabricate as many parts as you possibly can for as long as you can, then have them shipped here. But then you're going to have to get supplies of Gundanium. And I don't know where on Earth you could find that stuff, but you're going to _have_to. And then you're going to have a problem."

Mieser nodded, chuckling. "Maybe that's the case. Do you have a better plan?"

"Nope. And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Do you want to know why?"

"Why is that?" he asked, humoring her.

"Because you're crazy to want to rebuild this Gundam. And I bet Walker would agree with me."

Mieser matched her grin. "Well, if you're worried, Rani, why don't you express your complaints to the colonel next time he's in?"

Rani stared at Mieser for a few minutes, before throwing her hands up and walk away. Mieser took a moment to bask in his minor triumph before joining the electrician.

**VI**

Squadron Commander Wen stood at command-and-control, watching triangular points—individual mobile suits—converge along the expressway.

"Foxtrot, what's taking you so long?" he asked into his headset. "You're getting distance put between you and the rest of the company!"

In one of those actual mobile suits, Walker shook as distant cannon fire harmlessly raked his mobile suit. At least, he thought it was harmless. "We're working on that, sir!"

"_Well, get it together already, you're getting divided!_"

"Yes, sir, working on it," he repeated more insistently. He spotted an extremely close radar contact and, in a single action, brought his Leo's foot down on an Alliance armored car with a wire-guided missile launcher on it. The driver had probably hoped to pass the Leo and get a shot at its thinner rear armor. The weight of the foot and leg was enough split the axles and crinkle it like a child stepping on a soda can. Walker felt the resistance as he immediately stepped forward, rebalancing himself. "Not today, hoser!"

His mobile suit grasped its autocannon with both manipulators and fired another burst downrange. Between two-thousand and fifty meters, all Leo combat without the availability of cover had a tendency to play out the same—mobile suits trying to present the smallest possible target to each other while delivering the most firepower to the enemy. In the Leo's case, that mean standing legs apart to make your machine a little shorter, while clutching your autocannon with both arms to reduce recoil. Fire a burst, move, fire a burst, move.

_Now I remember why I became an Aries pilot. _"Foxtrot, concentrate fire on the edge of the platoon," he ordered, marking three enemy Leos with his IFF. "Get them to fold into Beagle's fire zone."

"_Acknowledged, Foxtrot Actual_."

Outside, Kanna's machine took some fire from another mobile suit, causing it to shake violently, and with it, Kanna inside her cockpit. After bouncing in the cockpit, she took a step backwards to brace her machine and fired another burst. She got a lucky hit, managing to strike an enemy Leo in the main camera, shattering the glass shield and ripping a hole through the whole housing.

A warning tone signaled in her cockpit, and she looked at the diagnostic. "Taichō, I got a problem here."

"_What?_"

"I got a cartridge jam in my one-oh-five."

"_Well clear it!_"

She was already tapping the explosive barrel clearer, which was supposed to safely break the offending shell apart and send it out the ejector. "I tried, sir, the charges fired but it's not clearing!"

"_Foxtrot 1-2, fall back. Me and four will cover you_," Mazuri said over the channel.

"_Acknowledged!_" she heard Dac chip in.

"No, I got another plan," she said, as she raised her machine's weapon parallel to the body. The forearm and autocannon began absorbing fire she'd otherwise take in her torso. The enemy, as though sensing her problem, began redirecting their fire.

"_Kanna, fall back_!" Mazuri yelled.

"Trust me!" she yelled, her cockpit shaking again. "Foxtrot Actual, can you move in front of me?"

Walker's Leo was the closest to her own, and he obliged her, carefully sidestepping as he fired his own weapon. "_Whatever you're going to do Kanna, do it now!_"

She waited until half of Walker's Leo obscured her forward display. "Engaging!" she yelled, as she flipped a switch. Her machine's heavily scorched right manipulator popped open, her huge and now heavily damaged autocannon falling to the ground at its feet. The manipulator reached underneath the shield on the other arm and drew out a beam saber and immediately activated it, sending out a closed loop of red-tinted energy.

"_Kanna, what are you_…_?_" Walker asked, before he was cut off when Kanna fired both of her liquid-fuel rear engines, housed in the bottom of the Leo's torso, at full power. She half-leapt, half-hovered over Walker's machine, clearing it by a scant few meters as she gained acceleration in the air, reaching a height of about fifty meters. On the way down, she extended her undamaged left manipulator.

"_Haaaaaahhhhh_!" Kanna's Leo descended on a nearby hostile armed with a beam carbine, who'd fired repeatedly at her as she came down, scoring several direct hits but failing to stop her. The Alliance pilot immediately threw his machine in reverse, but too late to keep Kanna from bringing her left manipulator down on his raised right arm. With its other arm, the Leo drove a beam saber just right and above the cockpit hatch, cutting clean through the other side. The Leo emitting a cloud of smoke and plasma, before going silent.

"_Foxtrot, Beagle, advance towards Foxtrot 1-2!_" Walker ordered.

_"Move, move, move!_"

Kanna wrenched the beam saber out of the other machine and immediately turned to its wingman, slicing off his left arm and causing him to fall back as she cut again through part of his torso armor. With most of the paint now missing from her right manipulator and forearm, Kanna's Leo advanced again, managing to land a killing blow on the one-armed Leo. "_Yosha!_" she called out.

"_The right flank is beginning to fall! Beagle, watch your fire, we've got one friendly up there!_"

"_Acknowledged, Foxtrot Actual, just don't keep flying through the air, we're getting a lot of crossfire as it is!"_

"_Centurion 1-2, use your bazooka on the troop concentration at the three-five-five!"_

Behind Walker's machine, a Leo got down on one knee and aimed its large bazooka—actually a type of powerful one-shot fire-and-forget missile launcher—almost directly north. He fired, enveloping himself in a cloud of exhaust as the guided missile shot up and took a top-attack profile, descending on a concentration of hostiles. The area vanished in a fireball. One Leo that managed to escape from the impact zone ended up in Kanna's immediate vicinity, and she used her beam saber to cut clear through his autocannon before Walker raked his backside with fire, knocking him out.

"_Hit! Hit! Hit!_" The Leo rose to its feet, discarding the bulky weapon, and drew its small beam carbine before catching up with the rest of the line.

"_Foxtrot 1-3, check your fire!_"

"_Sorry Kanna, that got a little close._"

"_This is Foxtrot Actual, out of ammo, cover me for a second!_" Without waiting, Walker's Leo discarded its entire drum-magazine assembly, which popped off with the carrying handle. The rifle was now just a long barrel with a transforming stock, a radar dish, and a large holding trigger. Normally a Leo did not discard the whole drum magazine in combat, since spare drums were too large to carry easily, and instead just change a smaller internal magazine that carried a fraction of the 100 shells the drum could. Instead, Walker's machine knelt down and took the drum next to what was left of Kanna's autocannon, affixing it to his own.

"Sixty-seven shots left," he mumbled, loading a round into the chamber. "Moving further towards the right flank!"

"_Affirmative, Foxtrot Actual!_"

"_Foxtrot 1-4, cover me, I'm clearing the hill!_"

Dac checked his radar display. "Roger, moving to position!" He ran to the top of a nearby hill, and counted five Alliance mobile suits arrayed in front of him, attempting to flank Foxtrot and Beagle. As though taking a cue from Kanna, two more friendly mobile suits cleared the hill on their thrusters, firing their beam rifles as they descended. Dac aimed and fired his own beam rifle on the same position and fired in careful, controlled bursts.

"_HQ, they're falling back! Permission to pursue?_"

Wen's voice could be heard. _"Negative. All call signs, do not pursue past two-seven! Dragon Flight, what's your situation?"_

Another, less clear voice could be heard, as a flight of black helicopters with red insignia approached from the south. "_Copy headquarters, Dragon Flight requesting permission to engage._"

"_Permission granted._"

Inside his cockpit, Walker looked over the diagnostic screen and his own radar, finding his reception seemed very poor, before getting a visual confirmation—almost twenty Chinese attack helicopters, just a bit shorter in length than a mobile suit was tall, fired their guided missiles in the direction of the retreating Alliance troops, blowing them apart in a swift barrage.

"_Oh come on! Why didn't he call those in earlier?_" he heard Dac complain over his cockpit.

"_He probably didn't want the Alliance to shoot down his expensive attack gunships_," Mazuri explained, matter-of-factly.

"_All call signs, return to formation and head along the extraction route. Good work out there._"

**VII**

"Wake up, Parsons."

Edward Parsons, an officer candidate in OZ, was sleeping with his face planted firmly on his desk. He immediately raised his head, yawning shortly and began rubbing his face, the impressions of his keyboard still on it.

He recognized the soft voice that had addressed him. As the computer 'woke', he fixed the maroon-and-gold collar on his uniform. "Doctor, sorry about that."

"Not sleeping well?" Eva Cebotari asked, breathy as usual.

He didn't immediately answer, instead grasping the mouse and moving the cursor about, opening some files.

"Take a look at this," he said finally, when he found the digital photograph he was looking for. It was of another political officer, Inspector Acht, speaking to a man Eva recognized as wearing a Eurasian military uniform.

"How old is this?"

"Just a few hours old, fresh out of Siberia."

"So the nosy commander of the Eighty-Eighth is snooping around the Gundam matter now?" she asked, sounding a tiny bit amused but also a tiny bit irritated.

Parsons mumbled his agreement, clicking on another photograph of Acht.

"Do you think he's found anything yet?"

"There's not much to find, but it's a possibility," Parsons explained. Parsons, only eighteen, was still training to become a "political officer", a staff officer who worked full-time in the Military Commissariat that officially monitored recruiting into OZ. Even at his level of competency, there was still some ways to go before actually becoming one. In the meantime, the young, dark haired man with straight, stringy hair was at the very bottom of the military totem pole even if he had been trained to fly a mobile suit. "So what now?"

"We already know Zechs will be setting up in Lake Victoria, where we can keep an eye on him. I'd prefer it if Walker were still with him. Why can't he behave himself? I'd hate to see Romefeller bring down a good pilot."

"Zechs might do that all on his own. As Millardo Peacecraft."

"Were all of Marticus Rex's children this problematic?" Eva asked, sounding more annoyed. She looked out the window at reclaimed land that, a few centuries ago, had been Tokyo Bay before Japan's Babylon Project had turned it into additional land for the megatropolis. It wasn't a coincidence that Tokyo went on to become one of the Alliance's capital cities, and the last one.

Parsons smirked, standing up from his chair to stretch his legs a little. His uniform was full of creases, while Eva, as usually, didn't wear any sort of uniform, just another partially unbuttoned blouse under a blazer. He stared at the various service photographs of Zechs Merquise and the numerous other pilots he was connected with: Oswald Walker, Lucrezia Noin, Otto Richter, Elve D'Ongelle, and others. Otto Richter's was darkened, with a red X superimposed over it.

He reached for the mouse and, with a light touch, clicked on Zech's photograph, putting the same X over it. "Charmers are always a problem." A smiled appeared on his face, when a thought occurred to him. "Speaking of behaving themselves, what would you say to an alternative?"

Eva looked genuinely interested, a rarity. "Like what?"

"How about we make a new play?"

She seemed impressed by his initiative. "You have something in mind?"

The young man started grinning dangerously. "Looking at it most simply, it looks like the unknowns are when Zechs will resign, and how many comrades he'll take with him. Treize's wishes aside, what if we could control both of those issues?"

Parsons kept grinning at Eva, who looked passed him and at the thin computer display that lit up the room. To the immediate left of Zech's darkened portrait was Walker, with his sharp, angular features and impartial expression, the sort of face military officers would don before political officers, but Walker wore all the time.


	14. The Middle Kingdom

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 14 **– The Middle Kingdom****

_June 15__th__, AC 195, Outside Maladzyechna, Belarusian Republic_

Like hundreds of other cities throughout Eurasia, Maladzyechna was built in the mid-20th century socialist style, with huge apartments and department stores, grand monuments, and large squares. It made it popular target for mobile suit warfare.

Flight Lieutenant Ogsawara Emi, a commander in the 1st Recon Battalion, led her three-man team of OZ-07AMS 'Aries' mobile suits on the city outskirts, armed with chain rifles and missile pods, and pockmarked with gunfire and missing ERA panels.

"_Arrow Actual, this is HQ._"

Emi blinked her tired eyes. The Belarusian Front was supposed to have been resolved by the end of June, which meant the OZ General Staff had ordered nonstop operations against the Alliance holdouts. "HQ, go ahead."

"_Four hostile Leos spotted inbound along the Vileika Expressway. Move to intercept."_

"Affirmative. Friendlies?"

"_Whatever tanks are left of the Hundred-Twentieth Guards Brigade. Raptor Flight's ETA is twenty minutes._"

"Acknowledged. Indira, Carlos, ahead full, I'll take point."

"_You go right ahead, ma'am_," she heard Carlos say, sounding tired himself. They'd deployed six hours ago, and been in two skirmishes already.

"_At half ammo here, Carlos. You?" _she heard Indira ask.

"_Same._"

Emi checked her onboard ordinance. She had a little less. "We'll make it work. Check your targets."

It took eight minutes for Emi's team to get in position among the ruins of the city outskirts, upon which they split up. There was a scattering of vehicles left from the 120th Guards Tank Brigade, a Eurasian Army unit with no mobile suits.

"Guards commander, we're stuck on the ground, so you'll need to be our eyes and ear. Clear?" Emi asked.

There was a static-plagued response from a woman with a Russian accent. "_Affirmative, Arrow Actual. We're moving into position with four destroyers and recon vehicles. Thanks for showing up._"

_You can't claim the Eurasians are ungrateful. _"Acknowledged."

On the ground, without the protection of giant mobile suits, Eurasian soldiers in full camouflage combat gear scattered around nervously near their fighting vehicles. There were two kinds: first, a narrow, amphibious turreted recon vehicle with a small, short-barreled gun. The second was rather different: the so-called "mobile suit destroyers", the SU-105 armored fighting vehicles. Made in part of the same titanium alloy the Eurasians sent to Earth's mobile suit factories, they weighed as much as two mobile suits. Each was basically a converted tank chassis missing its turret, with an extended armored casemate in the front of the vehicle housing a long smoothbore gun more than five meters long with limited tracking capabilities, meaning the vehicle had to swing to change its aim but a substantial amount. The whole thing was covered in layers of ERA blocks and had a crew of three. Emi was no engineer, but she knew enough to appreciate it: for between a tenth and a twentieth of the cost of a new OZ-06MS 'Leo', the Eurasians' destroyer was better armored than any main battle tank, was much faster in an open plain than a mobile suit, and could, in theory, penetrate one's armor if they hit it enough times.

_The hundred-and-fives on those things are the same caliber as a Leo's rifle, and unlike that, it can fire a guided missile that could seriously ruin someone's day. However, the rest of the time, it can only fire a HEAMS at about once every six seconds. That's ten shots a minute versus two-hundred from a Leo. _

"_We're in position, ground commander,_" a recon vehicle crew signaled the lead destroyer.

"Affirmative." A woman opened the commander's hatch on top of the lead destroyed and shielded her bulky helmet-mounted binoculars from the light—visibility wasn't that good inside the vehicle. Through them, she watched friendly infantry and vehicles fleeing from the cloud of smoke laid down by artillery. Behind them, she spotted four, tall shadows in the smoke, which slowly emerged. Four Leo mobile suits, all in olive drab colors.

"Oh, man…" she mumble.

The four Leos paused at the top of the hill, one of them destroying a retreating Eurasian tank in a single burst, knocking the turret clear off the chassis. The destroyer commander ducked back into her tank.

The four Leos surveyed the city outskirts, pinged each other with their IFFs, and proceeded down the hill directly towards their position. About half way there, two broke off and took a sharp right.

"_Problem, Arrow Actual. The Leos are splitting up, I repeat, the Leos are splitting up._"

Emi responded immediately, her Aries hurrying down the street awkwardly on its spindly legs. "_Affirmative, ground commander. Keep tracking one and two, we'll intercept three and four. Carlos, stand by for interception!_"

Carlos' Aries emerged from behind a building on the outskirts, chain rifle in hand. "_Interception successful,_" he announced, sounding a little nervous as his machine opened up with its chain rifle. The two Leos immediately responded by firing in his direction, hitting both his machine and the buildings around him. In just a few seconds, his Aries toppled backwards from the sustain fire, into the building behind him, bellowing smoke.

"_We got 'em!_" Syed Khan declared—both she and Emi had taken the distraction to flank the Leos on both sides, and opened fire with their own chain rifles. The Leos weren't fast enough to respond, and immediately succumbed to the barrage of APFSDS fire, one of them suffering a devastating ammo explosion while the other lost its footing and toppled downwards.

The alarm tones in Emi's cockpit died down and she took a sigh in relief, only to get another ping on her radio. "_We're still tracking the other two. Arrow Actual, do you read_?"

"_Affirmative, ground commander. Arrow 2, check on Arrow 3. Ground commander, there's a lot of debris in my way. Buy me some time!_"

"_How?_"

Emi's Aries made its best speed through the toppled buildings towards the main avenue. "_You'll have to be the bait!_"

"Khren_!_" a male destroyed crewman yelled, expressing disbelief.

"_Affirmative, Arrow Actual_," the destroyer commander said, sounding none too pleased. Down the main avenue, the two mobile suits proceeded unabated, the real one periodically firing down the sidestreets with his autocannon. The pilot spotted a platoon of Eurasian infantrymen trying to escape into a building for cover and obliterated them with a burst of fire.

The two destroyers were seconds away from turning the corner onto the avenue. "_Target sighted! Six, firing!_"

"_Seven, firing_!"

Now on the avenue, the two destroyers fired their main guns at the second Leo, striking it directly in the torso and knocking it over onto its back. The lead mobile suit torso-twisted to look at his comrade, before spinning back and aiming its dober gun. It fired a single 370 mm shot, completely vaporizing one of the destroyers in a violent explosion, leaving a crater in the street in its place.

"Der'mo_!_" the commander screeched, as her destroyed rapidly went into reverse, as the Leo, shaken by the recoil from its own siege cannon, lined up another shot. "_Any time now, Arrow Actual!_"

Emi's Aries finally appeared down one of the side streets, and locked onto the two Leos. "_Firing!_" Both missile pods mounted on its wing hardpoints fired their remaining AMSGM—anti-mobile suit guided missiles—which streaked down the street. They struck both mobile suits just as the lead Leo was about to firing another shot, which went down the avenue and destroyed a large department several block down. It fell onto its nearby companion, its fusion reactor leaking plasma and fuel.

"_Mission accomplished, ground commander._"

**II**

The Alliance had spent more than sixty years building its worldwide political order. Breaking it down was nothing short of a revolution, comparable in respects to the violent political upheavals of India, Russia, and France centuries earlier.

While certain individuals, by the distinction of their birthright, took their own courses in the revolution—including the famed Zechs Merquise—the vast majority of OZ had no choice but to remain committed to the future, stretched across the Earth, and soon space, fighting the old order.

In northeastern Europe, where the borders of Lithuania, Latvia, and Belarus met, the new OZ Earth Army was tasked with destroying the 209th and 110th Mobile Suit Divisions of the Alliance Army. The Belarusian Front had two flashpoints: Maladzyechna in the east and Kaliningrad in the west. In Asia, there were a number of small flashpoints, but the single largest theater, by far, was the Xinjiang Autonomous Region. Normally part of the People's Republic of China, Xinjiang had enjoyed considerable autonomy for the last century thanks to geography and what the locals termed "benign neglect." After 'Daybreak' on May 15th, the local government, with the assistance of part of the West Chinese Military District of the Alliance Armed Forces, declared independence from Beijing.

Flight Lieutenant Walker stared at the huge map of China—2.5 meters by 7 meters, he thought—hung on the back wall of the debriefing room. Periodically, either an officer from either OZ or the Chinese Air Force would walk up and move the magnetic markers indicating troop positions. There were digital maps on every computer, but the analog map was supposed to command attention as a constant reminder. It seemed to work.

_If OZ manages to at least contain the Alliance to Xinjiang, the Chinese Ambassador to OZ has promised the whole of the United Republics of China's full political endorsement of OZ. That would include Taiwan, China, Xizang, Hong Kong, et cetera. _Walker cocked his head and stared at the map as an OZ junior officer grabbed one of the dark blue markers south of Xinjiang and moved it slightly north on the map.

_And eventually Xinjiang, right? Then again, there's a lot I don't know about politics. For example, I'm sure the Alliance will lose, but I have no idea if China will make Xinjiang a republic or it will remain a region. After all, things only got really bad after the Alliance launched it coup. If that hadn't happened, Xinjiang probably wouldn't have remained independent even this long. _

Flight Officer Kaneshiro Kanna, in her red tank top and stretch pants, stood behind Walker, looking at the map. To her, it was mostly just a huge map of China. "_Taichō_," she said in her usual friendly matter when he failed to notice her after a few minutes.

"What's up, Kanna?" he said, not taking his eyes off the map.

"Squadron Commander Wen just announced a surprised drill in twenty minutes for us and Dubois' team," she said, gesturing with her thumb.

He looked at her. "Really? I wasn't prepared," he said, almost forcing a laugh.

"Just the firing range, I heard. Apparently our ballistic accuracy is too low, or something," she said, scratching the back of her head and laughing.

"Right, right. Well, let's not keep him waiting."

The two left the briefing room and strolled down the hallway. "How's the right arm, by the way, Kanna?"

She flexed her right up and put her left hand on her bicep. "It's great. What did you hear?"

"I meant your machine's right arm."

"Oh, right, _that_." She paused. "Well, I think they fixed it."

**III**

"_F/O Kaneshiro, do you read?_"

Kanna was hunched over in her cockpit, as though imitating the hunched posture of her mobile suit—the trademark firing stance of an OZ-06MS 'Leo' back in the _Speciali _days. Alliance ground doctrine called for soldiers to stand their machines up straight as possible for maximum visibility, but those instructed by the Special Troops tended to rely on the posture that provided a smaller target with greater stability.

"Go ahead, Yoshi-kun."

"_Your right arm's still going to be a little slow from structural damage from the first battle, but it shouldn't matter on the firing range. We're still waiting on spare parts._"

"_Hai_. And you can call me 'Kanna', Yoshi."

"Affirmative, Kanna-san." Yoshi put down the handset at the engineer's station and shrugged at a nearby colleague.

"I hate drills," Mazuri mumbled in his cockpit. Imitating the Chinese, he'd traded his service uniform for field uniform, cut from the same pattern as engineer's working uniforms but hunter green with gold insignia instead of grey. For mobile suit pilots in OZ, service uniforms were effectively "field" uniforms as a matter of tradition, and actual field uniforms were intended for physical training and exercises. "Drills, drill, drills. I guess I shouldn't be surprised I'd be doing them in OZ."

"_There are only two ways to get better: practice or fighting_," Kanna pointed out. Mazuri sighed in response.

"Cut the chatter, please," Walker asked as a crewman on the ground signaled for them to proceed to the firing range north of the spaceport. Stretched out over the steppe were several remotely-controlled targets, some mounted on moving cars, others fixed in place, folded along the ground.

Yoshitsune spoke again. "_Just as a reminder, sirs, you each have your own target groups. Flight Lieutenant, you'll take the black group. Flight Officer Kanna, you'll take the red group, Flight Officer Mazuri, you'll take the blue group. Pilot Officer Bishop, you'll take the yellow group. Don't shoot your neighbor's targets._"

Red-haired Kanna chuckled, activating the low-power optical magnification supplied by the sensor dish at the tip of each 105 mm autocannon. Her forward display zoomed in accordingly.

"_Weapons restrictions removed. And…begin!_"

Over thirty targets, large steel disks about a meter in diameter and painted with bull's-eyes in four different colors, unfolded from the ground. Standing in a line, the four mobile suits opened fire with training ammunition, just as loud as HEAMS but cheaper and safer to use on a firing range. Some of the targets moved around on their little remotely-controlled cars, causing the lines of fire to crisscross as the targets shifted about.

Yoshitsune kept both hands over his ear protection as he watched the mobile suits keep firing down rage. Each time they struck a target, they'd knock the disk it clear off its posting, but another one would rise up from the ground at another location. Bishop was the first to reload—following an automated process, the autocannon used a hydraulic piston to force a rectangular box magazine out of the cylindrical canister that housed the magazine feed, the 105 mm ammunition conveyor/loader system, and the blowout safety system. It fell to the ground with a _thud _despite being empty—like the ammunition itself, magazine boxes were made up of much more dense metal than the rest of the mobile suit. The machine's left arm took a spare magazine from left waist armor skirt, loaded it into a slot in the back of the canister, aimed again and resumed firing.

The heavy artillery rained across the firing range for another few minutes, until the team had nearly run out of ammunition and the range had run out of targets. Yoshi removed his ear protection and spoke into the headset. "_Exercise complete. Weapon safeties on._"

As he and the other engineers and ground crew collected up the various target discs, the actual combat pilots stood around chatting near the coffee pot and water cooler that sat just outside the planning tent.

"Can you believe that some people do this for fun?" Kanna asked, one hand on her hip and the other holding a paper cup of water.

"Mobile suit firing ranges?" Mazuri asked, in front of the coffee pot. "No, I do not."

"No, I mean normal firing ranges. With small arms."

Holding a Styrofoam coffee cup, Mazuri shrugged. "Some people think weapons are cool."

"Right," Kanna said sarcastically between sips.

"Come on, Kanna, what about your _tonfa_?"

"I don't think they're _cool_," Kanna said, patronizing her younger colleague. "If anything, the _martial art _is cool. The tonfa are just two…wooden batons."

Mazuri pointed with his index finger, still holding the filled cup. "See? And some people think shooting is cool. Or fun. Or whatever. Didn't you ever play airsoft when you were a kid?"

"They have airsoft in Kenya?" Yoshitsune asked from computer station, a notebook computer unfolded on a plastic table.

"Of course, in the cities. They _must_ have it in Japan, even Okinawa," Mazuri pointed out.

Kanna rolled her eyes, as Mazuri took a single careful sip of his coffee and Dac approached the two from behind, holding a few paper printouts.

"Hah! Point-one-zero fire deviation, Mr. Alliance Hotshot Ace," he said. "I _matched _you."

"You did hit _fewer _targets, Dac," Kanna pointed out, as Dac took Mazuri's coffee cup and took a big gulp of the contents, immediately regretting it. He immediately let it trickle out of his mouth, sticking his tongue out.

"David, you should never use scalding hot coffee for a victory gulp. That's a rookie mistake, really," Mazuri said, as Dac handed him back the cup.

Dac looked at him and said something unintelligible, his burned tongue still sticking out of his mouth.

Walker stood on top of his mobile suit, which had just been lowered into its carrier truck, onto the torso, immediately left of the cockpit door, looking down. Yoshitsune eventually called up to him from the ground.

"Something the matter, sir?"

"There's still something wrong with the Pulse-Doppler, can you toss me a size fifteen wrench."

Yoshitsune did one better and climbed into the top of the mobile suit, sprawled out like a spider, with a wrench set hanging from a shoulder strap. The two stood immediately above the cockpit, looking down at the cranium armored housing. Immediately underneath the main floodlight and camera viewport on a Leo were two multimode radar arrays, large circular dishes hidden behind the two armored plates that sat in the housing. It was a design feature Walker recognized from the OZ-00MS 'Tallgeese', that had been incorporated into the OZ-12SMS 'Taurus', along with the OZ-07MS 'Tragos' and the both amphibious mobile suits, the OZ-08MMS and OZ-09MMS. The OZ-07AMS 'Aries' was the one exception, which housed its multimode radar system together in the nosecone that made up the cranium 'mask' underneath its stylized floodlight and camera housing.

"You think it's the left one?" Yoshitsune asked, leaning down and undoing the bolts that held the armored cover down.

"I think so. I noticed it in the battle yesterday. A machine this new shouldn't have that problem, really."

"Right," he said, undoing the hidden bolt. He and Yoshi each took one of the large visible latches, pulling them open and turning the whole plate clockwise. The armor plate popped off, exposing the delicate copper alloy antenna dish underneath, and knelt down.

"What do you think?" Walker asked.

"It looks like some of the cable seating might be lose," Yoshitsune said, pointing at the exposed wiring. "I'll be sure to take a look at it when we get back to base."

_While the actual digital cameras might be a mobile suit's eyes, it doesn't change the fact that we all rely on high integration of data from fire control, laser range finding, warfare satellites and our multimode radar to actually fight. _Walker nodded at Yoshi. "Thanks. Sometimes I worry about these things, comes from having been an engineer. Nothing's ever 'just broken'."

"Yes, sir." Yoshi replied as Walker slid down to the flatbed and back onto the ground, getting back to his team.

"Something the matter?" Kanna asked, as made strange noises with his tongue out.

"Just some technical stuff. What's going on?"

"They're just arguing over the results," Kanna said, cocking her head and pointing a thumb at the other two.

Mazuri scoffed. "See, this is why I hate drills. Good, bad in combat, that's part of life. Or death if you're too bad. But with these drills, you can endlessly argue about _statistics_ and _trends_. Like we're a bunch of bloody university footballers."

"How's that different from arguing over who's better in combat? Everything's tracked nowadays, A.J.," Dac countered, having regained use of his tongue.

Mazuri looked at him suspiciously. "Well, there's an appreciable difference between shooting at a target on a firing range and shooting at a target in a warzone," he offered.

"Oh? And if it's something that can't shoot you back, how so?" Dac asked, sounding cocky.

"That metal target out there? It's not some mother's son, as far as I can tell," Mazuri retorted calmly.

Walker sighed at them as Kanna shook her head. "I can't ask you to cut the chatter out here, now can I?"

**IV**

At the No. 2 Large Aircraft Hangar at the Lake Victoria Academy airfield, Gundam-01 was starting to come together—or what was left of it, anyway—into something resembling an actual mobile suit.

Gunther Mieser and Lieutenant Colonel Zechs Merquise discussed the progress made thus far in one of the hangar's offices, in front of a blue holographic projection of a complete Unit 01.

The door opened, cutting off their conversation. With one hand on the doorknob and the other on a clipboard, Rani Bishop stepped into the office and immediately eyed the hologram.

"Hey, cool effect."

Zechs stared at the newcomer through his trademark masked, confused. Mieser intervened. "Colonel, this is Rachel Nina Bishop, one of the engineers."

"I prefer 'mechanic' and 'Rani'," she told them cheerfully, walking over to the hologram and sticking her head out to Zechs. "It's nice to meet you, Lighting Count."

Perhaps impressed her by forthcoming gesture, Zechs shook the young woman's hand. "It's nice to meet you, Rani."

Rani immediately took her hand back and showed him the other one, holding a clipboard. "Would you mind signing this?"

Mieser rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything. "What is it?" Zechs asked.

"Permission to access Tallgeese's spare parts. Going over the schematics, I realized, cosmetic differences aside, there's a lot of commonality between Unit Zero-One and _your_ machine. But I'd actually have to see them in person before I'd suggest trying to trade parts."

Zechs looked at Mieser, who cocked his head. "I was about to say, Bishop is onto something, I think."

The Lighting Count took the clipboard and signed the paper with the attached pen. "Go ahead, then. Just don't take anything still _in _Tallgeese."

"Because you might need it," Rani finished for him. "Right. Another pilot with a sense of humor, that's so nice," she told him cheerfully, before spinning around and hopping out of the office, ponytail and braids bobbing behind her.

Zechs looked at the open door behind her and smirked. "I'm afraid to ask where she came from."

Mieser shrugged. "She…know what she's doing."

**V**

Office Candidate Edward Parsons stood in the courtyard of the Darlian Estate, located on the large artificial landmass of New Yokohama in Sagami Bay. New Yokohama had been a bedroom community for some of the highest Alliance leader in Japan, including many of the members of the Assembly of Representatives. Representatives had spent varying parts of the year in Japan, so the whole island was dotted with extravagant estates constructed in the styles of the nations of the UESA. Thus, most of the great mansions were built in the European style, like the Darlian Estate.

The big shots of the Alliance cabinet also got their own mansions, naturally, right down to First Deputy Foreign Minister Darlian. Since the death of Viktor Darlian in New Edwards during the Gundam attack, Darlian family and their staff—a grand total of about a dozen people, at most—were allowed to remain in the estate for the time being.

_What a waste, _he thought, glancing up at the mansion and dropping a cigarette onto the pavement, which he extinguished with his foot. _I'd feel worse about littering if it wasn't. There won't be any more Alliance Deputy Foreign Ministers. In the meantime, this grand house will be shuttered. Or sold to someone from Romefeller, which is more or less the same thing. _

As expected, the front door about ten meters away opened, and Mareen Darlian emerged, in one of her incredibly expensive dark blue dresses.

"Mr. Parsons," she called out, looking back and forth.

"What can I do for you, Ms. Darlian?" he asked, quickly walking up to the widow Darlian.

"Here you are. Mr. Parson, I was wondering if you'd given any thought to my proposal."

Ms. Darlian was referring to her request that he leave. _Not much of a proposal. _"Ms. Darlian, with your husband's untimely demise, you must understand that the Japanese government is quite insistent that the security detail assigned to your family and residence be continued. If anything, it must be raised."

"I really don't understand why that's necessary. Aren't we civilians now?"

_You must be joking. _"It is for your own safety, ma'am."

Darlian opened her mouth to object again, only to have him cut her off. "That being said, Ms. Darlian, I informed my superiors and they haven't ignored you.

"Really?"

"Yes. A more senior officer will take my place, a woman, whom we hope that your daughter and yourself will be more comfortable with."

"Who?"

"Dr. Cebotari."

"Oh," she said, before pausing. "_Oh._"

Eva Cebotari was actually sitting adjacent to Relena Darlian inside her armored limousine. She had said a total of three words to Relena, who stared outside at the bridges passing by. Given whom she was keeping company with, she wore her usually outfit, buttoned and with a dark red tie in a full Windsor.

Eva already knew Relena did not want to talk with anyone from OZ, or the Romefeller Foundation or even the former-Alliance. Those were all fine by Eva—she didn't want to talk to Relena either, and so long as she could do the job without it, all the better.

Eva wondered if she was this troublesome when she was fifteen. Probably not.

Concealing the document in her lap, out of Relena's vision, she read the transcript of the conversation recorded between Relena and her mother when she first arrived back from North America.

_"Relena. I'm so glad you're alright…"_

_"Mother!"_

_"Your father. In the end, did he say anything to you?"_

_A pause. "No, nothing."_

_"I see." Another pause. "Relena, there is something you must know."_

_"Mother! I _am _Relena Darlian! Please, say you will always be my mother! Please say it."_

Very carefully, Eva closed the folder. _Touching. But it does little for me, but confirm what I already suspected Relena to know. Zechs must know we are watching her, so how would he go about contacting her. An intermediary, one Relena's being careful to keep out of sight for the time being._

She thought back to Parson's file, with the photographs. _Richter is dead. Walker is in China, and probably couldn't be convinced to do something so _stupid_, unless Treize was asking him. So, Noin?_

Noin had been conspicuous absent, given that she'd attached herself to the Lightning Count. Eva was more capable than most when it came to understanding how other people behaved and how they rationalized their behavior, hence her career choice. She understood that, in the scheme of things, military officers did not trust their political counterparts. But from where she was standing, Zechs Merquise, OZ's greatest ace, was playing 'vacation' in Lake Victoria, apparently alone, while Lucrezia Noin, an actual Lake Victoria instructor, had vanished off the face of the Earth since leaving Mirny. All this while OZ was 'enjoying' a week or two of not constantly responding to the Gundams, courtesy of Une—her methods, unpopular with Zechs, still classified.

From the outside, where the political apparatus sat, certain military officers looked like they'd gone insane and were doing a poor job of hiding it.

Eva felt the limousine come to a halt and carefully put the folder into an elegant leather binder, black with OZ's letters embossed in gold in the center. Relena's driver climbed out before opening the door for the young lady, while Eva helped herself out.

Parsons, as expected, was still standing outside the building, waiting for Relena's returned. Apparently, Ms. Darlian had been talking with him, or at him, when Relena greeted her. The two political officers stood a few meters away, pretending to be out of earshot.

"You'll be joining the Darlians for the time being, Doctor," Parsons mumbled. Eva said nothing in response, holding her leather binder behind her back.

"So they're still going to be here?" Relena asked her mother.

"Just the one, darling. Until they've done whatever they meant to do," she responded somberly.

"At this point, I'd much prefer they just sit in a car outside all day and night, then actually come into our home. What difference does it make to them?" she demanded angrily, as Relena's driver brought the 4WD military jeep shared by Parsons and Eva around.

"'Evening, Doctor," he said aloud, offering her a cigarette. The pale doctor, who actually stood almost a head taller than Parsons, with her heels, took it and held it in her crimson lips, ever close to him.

Parsons lowered his voice, imitating the Darlians but actually succeeding. "I hope you're ready for this. They're…unpleasant," he told her, taking out a lighter and holding it to the tip of the cigarette.

"We won't be here much longer. Zechs'll make his move."

"You still think she won't be a problem after that?" he asked, trying to light the cigarette.

"I do."

"Well, I disagree," Parsons said, still trying to ignite the cigarette. Eva lowered his arm and the lighter with one hand, taking the cigarette out with the other and tossing it to him as she walked away.

Holding the cigarette, Parsons walked over to the jeep and climbed in, setting his briefcase down in the passenger side seat. As if on cue, Eva slowly strolled up to the Darlians, her folder still behind her back, smiling cheerfully at the two of them. She introduced herself to Ms. Darlian in as friendly a manner as she could manage, explaining why she was here.

Waiting in the driveway, Parsons stared at the back of Relena's head scornfully.

_She will be as much trouble as Zechs, maybe more. All because of that damn Gundam pilot. OZ didn't touch her after that, they won't touch her now that Darlian's dead. If that weren't the case, someone like Une would have long killed her, with a bomb or a mobile suit or something equally ridiculous. _

He sighed, taking out another cigarette as he climbed into the military jeep. _They ought to keep a portrait of Treize Bloody Khushrenada in that house, for all of this. _

Relena continued complaining to Eva, who pretended to look attentive and empathic, while watching Parsons rive out through the gate out of the corner of her eye. She wasn't happy to be here, but she did enjoy watching Parsons manage the discomfort as well.

Once he'd actually exited the grounds, Parsons permitted himself to relax and breath normally. He threw his free arm over the passenger side seat and gave an indignant sigh, his cheeks ballooning. "Mark my words, Doc, she's going to still be a problem. And as you like to say, 'to be a solution, it must share traits with the problem.'"

Parsons didn't like where this was going, but there wasn't anything to be done about Relena Peacecraft yet.

**VI**

Still early afternoon, Walker sat in the lieutenants' barracks at Dongfeng Cosmodrome, his mobile sitting on the table directly in front of him. As usual, something someone else had said—in this case, A. J. Mazuri—had gotten him thinking, and he acknowledged that he hadn't spoken to his siblings since Arethra tracked him down to an Alliance hospital in the Mediterranean. He hadn't spoken to his own mother since before 'Daybreak'.

Behind him, a pair of flight lieutenants were discussing the classified technical manual for the new Taurus mobile suit. Like most, they expected that the problem in Xinjiang would be resolved quickly, and they were most likely to be reassigned to space, where the political situation made Earth look about as neat and organized as a cadet's winter ball.

"Hey, Walker!"

Leaning back in his folding chair, Walker glanced at them. "Yes?"

An Indian flight lieutenant tossed him the book. "You were an engineer—what's up with the new beam rifles?"

"Excuse me?"

"Check page three-thirteen," his British comrade explained. "These beam rifles are the Taurus' principal beam weapon, and that's aces and all, by why is the housing different?"

"Look at the diagram. The emitter's different, it's not a cylinder. Why is that?"

Walker looked at the diagram. They were right: all beam rifles used on mobile weapons looked largely the same because the shielded weapon housing was intended to hold the same components. Larger beam cannons had different power requirements, and accordingly, longer or wider barrels for charging coils or the like. They all featured the electronics and transformers in the stock and grip, where the weapon was held, a large, rectangular armored box that housed the power cells and the onboard generator, and a cylindrical barrel that housed the emitter coils, the focusing mechanisms, and an onboard refrigeration device. The new beam rifle used on the Taurus lacked the last of those, instead having a rounded rectangular arm with part of the end missing, and the emitter tip housed inside.

"This is a rapid fire beam weapon," Walker pointed out. "That would likely have something to do with it. But beyond that, this design is more aerodynamic. The Taurus has variable geometry for a 'fighter' mode, after all."

"Why would it have to be aerodynamic in space?" the Briton countered.

That was a good question. Walker answered quickly, guessing based on what he knew. "Outer space isn't a perfect vacuum. There's micrometeorites, debris fields, lots of things. Not to mention the upper atmosphere in low orbit."

The Briton looked at the India and elbowed him gently. "See? Told you he was a smart bloke."

Walker reached passed his chair, handing them back the book. "I work with what I know."

"You ought to get one of the chairs on that new mobile doll automation project, for the second generation designs."

Walked turned around in his chair, facing his phone again. "No thanks, I prefer working with humans."

"Oh, don't we all, but it may not be up to us sad buggers, now will it?"

He didn't respond, instead putting his hands on his knees and staring back at the phone, trying to compose his thoughts. After a few more minutes, he'd taken his mobile in one hand, before opening his paper notebook and leafing through the pages.

_From now on, instead of pointless sketches, I'll start making notes of what to tell people I don't like talking to_, he thought, running his hand over the imprint left from his pencils. _Approach your problems analytically, logically. The rational mind is the refuge of the uncreative and inexperienced. _

_**Author's Note:**_

_Well, some good news—I'm not desperately buying time like I used to be. Courtesy of the translators, it seems as though _The Glory of Losers _is going to confirm my suspicions, and that Relena's actions vis-à-vis Une are quite different (I've included her reaction to VFM Darlian's death in the chapter.) Some corrections already made to earlier chapters: the Siberian Cosmodrome has been moved to Lake Baikal, as described in the manga. Last chapter's scene with Eva and Edward takes place in Tokyo, not Luxembourg (hence this chapter's scene), while Ventei and Septim have been promoted to Generals of (Branch), rather than Colonel Generals-in America, that means "four star" generals. In later chapters, I'll include a rank table for the reader's benefit. _

_That being said, a whole month passes between Heero blowing himself up and waking up with Trowa two episodes later. That's almost as much time as has passed since Operation M began! This is one of the few times in the whole of the series where the Gundams are almost uniformly silent. What OZ did in this meantime is extremely important, since it demonstrates that the Gundams exist to destroy OZ, and OZ does not exist merely for the Gundams on Earth. _

_What does OZ do? A few things—consolidate their holdings on Earth, fight the remnants of the Alliance, begin diplomatic relations with the Colonies. Unfortunately, I doubt we'll be having Relena's assassination "attempt" on Une, but I do expect she'll make her appearance at Bremen before Romefeller's leadership. _

_Some things to look forward to eventually: the Catalonias, Dorothy and Dermail, more Treize, and eventually, the move into outer space. Also, an 'opening' set to_ Rhythim Emotion _when they finally get to space (take it or leave it, heh.)__ I have to admit, I've written a lot only to cover a comparatively small part of the series (especially given my ambition of extending this right up to _Endless Waltz, _though I doubt I'll be able to get away with that in the same single 'story'). I may need to learn to be more concise in the future. _


	15. Fortunate Sons

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 15 **– Fortunate Sons****

In After Colony 191, to the observant the Alliance's political supremacy over Earth was beginning to show its cracks. Its policing of the space colonies was beginning to extract a toll on institutions of government, not economically so much as politically. Instead, with each passing day the Alliance grew more dependent on the financial support of the Romefeller Foundation, unwilling to force the individual states of Earth to shoulder more of the cost of an interstellar war.

On Earth, 'OZ' was little more than mysterious acronym, the Alliance's premiere design bureau. The secretive order remained in the shadows of history's largest military-industrial complex. Its public face remained the Alliance's Special Mobile Suit Troops, under the command of Brigadier General Chilias Catalonia, the top mobile suit commander in Earth Sphere.

A fifteen-year-old Alliance officer cadet, Oswald Walker, had been summoned from Iruma Air Force Base, where he'd served as part of the engineering detail. He wasn't really clear why he'd been called—as he understood it, he was only in the _Speciali _by virtue of having been trained at Lake Victoria not long before that.

"Sir, Officer Cadet Oswald Walker, reporting to the special aerial task force for the first J.A.P. point!"

Flight Lieutenant Broden, who's beard was a little shorter but otherwise as Walker had always remembered him, looked up from the table of maps. "Take a seat, Walker, you're early. Which I should be grateful for, I suppose."

Walker spotted a nearby folding chair and sat down, hands in his lap, trying to keep his posture right. Broden was approached by a young junior officer, who presented him with a clipboard. He raised an eyebrow at her before signing it and dismissing her.

"First things first, cadet. You got a piece?"

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Your sidearm, son. You got one?"

"No, sir, haven't been issued one," he immediately snapped out.

Broden smirked, looking around, before drawing his own pistol. "I tell you, what they do to you kids is practically criminal. They snatch you out of your engineering classrooms and your workshops, issue you your hunter greens, drop you in a mobile suit and send you out into a war zone, without the damn decency of so much as a knife. Take mine."

"Sir, are you sure?"

"Don't worry about it. I can get another no problem, which I can't say the same for you. Trust me, it works. You might want to squeeze a few off at the range before we leave though, assuming you know how."

"…right, sir," he said, taking the firearm and looking at the polished black frame. _Czech-made, double-action, nine-millimeter. _The beneficial ergonomics were probably lost on his smaller hands. He put it into the leather holster fixed to his belt. "Is that why I was called? Because I'm an engineer?"

Broden glanced at Walker, before sitting down in his chair and leaning back. "Well, it is true, both Treize and I agreed it's worth having someone with technical expertise along for the ride. No offense, son, but you're probably not going into combat."

"I understand, sir. Do you need my certification?" he asked, reaching into his uniform and producing a folded document.

Broden raised an eyebrow. The certification documents were God's word in the Specials, a consequence of Chilias Catalonia's personally mandated military education and anti-hazing edicts. Catalonia couldn't control how the whole Alliance trained and treated its fighting men and women, but he could control each and every soldier in the Speciali, as well as every Alliance soldier trained at Lake Victoria and elsewhere. Among military units, OZ was unique for its strict anti-hazing policies, forbidding the typical rituals of physical harassment, abuse and humiliation. Initiation into the Special Mobile Suit Troop was by done by training and qualification, instead. And they were already considered the best combat units in the Alliance.

The story went that Catalonia, as a young man, had endured the sort of hazing considered extreme even in the Alliance military, that had almost killed him. In actuality, a certain percentage of military enrollment was lost to death or injury due to hazing, everything from beatings in Eurasia to people being drunk to death in the British Isles.

"I don't think that'll be necessary. Just be standing by. You'll be my backup, but I doubt they'll need us. Treize and his second seat will be going out first. You know him, actually, same class as you: Zechs Merquise."

He pointed across the hangar. Climbing down a gantry, in the same uniform as Walker, was Zechs Merquise, wearing his trademark large sunglasses and smiling at an officer addressing him.

"He had good things to say about you. As an engineer. Don't worry about it, son, you probably won't even need to climb into your machine."

**II**

"Sirs, we're over the first J.A.P. We'll enter the combat zone in three hundred seconds," Walker said, from his seat in the middle of the flight deck. He sat behind the pilot and co-pilot, two women in Alliance flight suits and bulky helmets.

"I still don't understand why they're sending the Speciali to suppress some tiny rebel cell in the Pacific," Broden commented, sounding annoyed more than anything.

Squadron Commander Treize Khushrenada sat immediately behind him, his arms crossed. As usual, he sounded supremely confident. "Commander Catalonia wants to assess the capabilities in the new Aries. As well as your capabilities, Zechs."

"I hope I'll be able to live up to those expectations," Zechs replied softly.

They soon left for the main cargo hold, where their machines—early production OZ-07AMS 'Aries' mobile suits, in Alliance cadet grey—were waiting to be deployed. Walker had been trained and worked at Corsica, which produced OZ-06MS 'Leo' machines. By contrast, the Aries featured bulk turbofan engines, but had sleek, contoured armor and aerodynamic lines. He stared at the cranial unit, styled after a combat pilot in full gear with a breathing mask that housed the multimode radar, complete with a sensor groove modeled after the visor lever in a flight helmet. It was a work of art, perhaps the most humanoid mobile suit produced by OZ.

_What a machine. And I have a chance to be among the first pilots, if not in combat. Amazing. I've heard that the OZ livery will be solid black with yellow accents. The first black mobile suits, flying into the battlefield like gods of death. _

"Is the machine ready, Walker?"

"Yes, sir, it is," Walker said immediately, spinning around and saluting Treize. The older man smiled at him, amused, before tapping his forehead with two fingers.

"Thank you for looking at it personally. I expect great things from these new mobile suits. So long as we supply sufficient pilots."

"I've heard the Alliance is looking forward to their deployment this year."

"The combat data from this mission, and others, should make that possible," Treize told him, as the clamshell hatch opened up and he climbed inside.

"We'll be standing by, though I don't expect you'll need us, your Excellency." Treize, after all, came from royalty. He was the scion of the Khushrenada Family, a relative of both the chairman of the Romefeller Foundation and a General Catalonia himself. He'd been the youngest instructor in the history of the Lake Victoria Academy. As oppose to Walker, who was the son of a dead Alliance staff sergeant, a general nobody.

"That won't be necessary, Walker," he said. "Prepare for launch, Mr. Walker."

"Yes sir!" Walker ran to the local telephone and picked it up. "Cockpit, this is the cargo hold. We're ready here."

"_Affirmative. This is Cavalier Mothership, mobile suits, prepare to launch first wave! Good luck!_"

The rear hold door opened, and lights went from red to green. Clenching a handhold on the cargo hold wall, Walker watched the two mobile suits slid down the ramp on their cradles and deployed.

"_Flight Officer Zechs, let's finish this fight within three minutes._"

"_One minute's all I need, Commander. His battle will end the moment I land._"

He watched them obliterate the rebel positions with surgical precision. It only took a minute, as Zechs promised, to kill nearly all the combatants.

He didn't participate in the operation, aside from his own technical work. He didn't even deploy the mobile suit assigned to him. Nonetheless, it was the beginning of the best years of his young life. He never remembered being prouder, feeling more self-fulfilled. Zechs actually requested Walker as one of his subordinates when he received his commission as a P/O. He taught him to become a reasonably effective killing machine, though he'd never compare to the skill of his peer, the Lightning Baron.

**III**

Walker had been dreaming vividly, something he found few people shared. He tended to have very lucid dreams—in actuality, he probably had less than lucid dreams too, he simply didn't remember them. They were almost always replaying moments from his past, in outstanding detail, as though he was compelled to relive the past a few nights each week.

He'd sleeping in the lieutenants' barracks, adjacent to the junior officers' barracks at the Jiuquan Cosmodrome. Used to a very regular sleeping schedule, he was surprised to find it was three in the morning.

Rolling over, he tried resting his head on his arm, before giving up and switching on the lamp on the bed stand. Heaving a sigh, he climbed out of bed and walked over to the small metal sink in his room.

_Even out here in western China, F/L get their own rooms. _He ran his hands under the cool water and splashed his face a few times before looking at the mirrored cabinet above the sink.

He'd changed a little bit since those happy days. There was no minimum enlistment age into the Special Mobile Suit Troops, though physically, anyone who hadn't begun puberty would have trouble just operating a mobile suit, much less be trusted in one. The minimum requirement for applying was completion of the Advanced UCSE examination, the equivalent of a secondary school diploma. Walker had passed after being offered a position in the Speciali, when he was fourteen. The same was true for Zechs and Noin and others in his class, he always thought. They'd all gone through puberty as commissioned officers in the Alliance military.

It wasn't the first time he'd had that dream either. The two women who flew the aircraft went on to have successful careers as Speciali carrier pilots, though he'd heard they'd died when the Gundams struck New Edwards. General Catalonia perished in a battle alongside his comrades, the most glorious death any of them could imagine, receiving a posthumous promotion from Field Marshal Noventa, and was compared with great commanders killed in action like Zhang Zizhong of China and Azi Aslanov of the Soviet Union. Walker had attended the funeral and watched the body lie in state. Treize was a pallbearer, and ultimately his successor. After a few glorious missions with Zechs, they parted ways when Walker as reassigned to the Middle Eastern Air Army. Then he died at Corsica, before coming back. Walker's first life seemed dominated by those great men—Catalonia, Khushrenada, Merquise—the way an extrasolar planet was dominated, or even only detectable, by the star it orbited.

In the mean time, he'd grown taller, though he was still a little shorter than Zechs was. He'd been "cuter" when was fourteen—by the time he was eighteen, he'd developed his sharp, angular features and somewhat matted brown hair. Even without his goggles, people sometimes told him he had a face like a hawk. Something about his eyebrows and nose, apparently.

Walker stared at his reflection a few more seconds, before actually imitating a bird call quietly, his hands in the shape of claws. The whole effect was enough to elicit a laugh, and he climbed back into his bed, shaking his head.

**IV**

Space Fortress _Barge._ The largest and best defended of Alliance's Outer Space fortresses, it had been constructed around around a pair of what were, at the time, the most powerful beam cannons in the Earth Sphere, on either end of its central axis. After the Gundam attack on May 19, they were named in honor of the late Field Marshal Noventa, becoming the Noventa Cannons.

When OZ seized _Barge _in early June, the Alliance evacuated what military forces they had in the area to Colony L1-D-120, home to the headquarters of the Alliance Space Forces. Nonetheless, the Alliance intended to continue fighting for _Barge._

Ex-Alliance Captain Eduardo Fox, a squadron commander in the 99th Assault Pioneer Regiment of the Space Forces, sat in his lavender OZ-06SMS 'Leo', equipped with the typical beam rifle and vernier thruster pack. Its surface velocity was around 6200 meters a second, which was the necessary speed to keep their altitude while in orbit over Earth. In effect, they were traveling the same speed as the nearby cruiser wreckage and space debris, and thus appeared to be standing still.

He, and what was left of the Ninety-Ninth's E-Company, had been conducting hit-and-run operations on OZ since the _Barge _Offensive began. _This is OZ's first foothold in space. We thought if we could stop them here, they would go no further. Of course, we failed to appreciate how hard that would be_, he thought as he scribbled in his journal.

OZ had better pilots. On average, they were _significantly _better. The Alliance's greatest advantage was numbers—the Alliance Space Mobile Suit Forces were twenty years in the making, while OZ had to start from scratch—but that was a disadvantage that was slowly being worn away. _We still outnumber the Zodiacs four to one in some areas, five to one at L2. But they're better soldiers, and more and more, they're better equipped. _

He sighed deeply, his forward display bathing him in the bluish-white glow of Earth below him. _A Taurus is a death sentence. OZ only gives them to their best pilots, with good reason, but even a mediocre pilot could kill a Leo in a Taurus. _

Fox paused, twirling his pencil in his hand. "I guess that's what they're going to do with mobile dolls." The whole 'mobile doll' concept was still just a rumor to the Alliance, but rumors got around. _Romefeller's not pulling any punches for us. More and more, it looks like the Zodiacs acted on their own, and at some point, Romefeller had to decide which horse to back: the Alliance or the Specials. They chose the Specials. _

He frowned, then crossed out that last line. It was two depressing.

"_Captain, we've got some movement around sensor buoy nine._"

He immediately shut his diary and grabbed his helmet, which had been floating around in his cockpit, a cockpit designed and manufactured by the same organization they were fighting. "Acknowledged, Baker 1-3. Any confirmation?"

"_Well, it'd have to be at least as big as a mobile suit to trigger the buoy._"

"Just check, T.J.," he said, sighing.

"_…we got it. It's a mobile suit! Detecting two energy signatures…they're Leos! Repeat, they're definitely Leos!_"

He pulled on his helmet, allowing the magnetic seals to secure it in place. "Acknowledged. E-Company, split up. Baker, you're with me. Buchanan, double around with Able Flight and flank them from Two-Two-Six."

"_Acknowledged, Baker Actual._"

"Two Leos? Well, Wednesdays aren't supposed to be lucky, last I checked. T.J., you're certain they are only two."

"Acknowledged. Them are us are the only things for a thousand clicks. Heading suggests they're coming from _Barge_."

"Maybe it is our lucky day. Most have gotten split up from the rest of their recon group. Move out!"

Six Pioneer Leos in lavender livery fired their vernier thrusters and moved in formation at full power, continuing to accelerate in space. The plan was for Baker to engage the unit head on and exchange fire at a distance, while Able moved in through the nearby wreckage field, flanking them. Simple, but effective. The more complex the maneuvers, the more likely OZ was to turn things around and screw with them.

"_Hostile on the IFF. No hailing frequencies. They must have seen us by now, anyone got visual confirmation?_"

They were still a hundred kilometers away, well beyond visual engagement range. Still, one failsafe way to confirm a hostile bogey was the cobalt blue livery OZ used on Earth and in space.

"_Negative, Baker Actual._"

He increased his forward display's magnification as far as he could. It took another minute of them closing in and the sun emerging from behind Earth, but he was finally able to make out a twinkle.

"_Baker Actual confirming. It's blue, repeat, cobalt blue._ _Prepare to engage!_"

Fox could also see that there was another one coming up a few kilometers behind the first bogey, along the same vector, and both were accelerating from their vernier thrusters. "Looks like a second Leo, T.J., getting anything on the IFF?"

"_Negative, chief._"

"Well, then, let them have it." With a squeeze of his trigger, he sent four charged bolts from his beam rifle downrange at the bogey. He didn't expect to hit, but when five other mobile suits were doing the same thing, there was a decent chance.

The two Leos predictably scattered, splitting up along the horizon. _Nice try, but no dice. _"Stay in formation and let them try and surround us, that'll split them up! And keep up the fire!"

With retrograde bursts from their rockets, Baker Flight did just that, forming a circle so they could continue firing at the two bogeys while minimizing the chance of shooting each other. The two bogeys took solid, gentle lines, still at full power, managing to circle them, while jinking every few seconds.

"Keep up the pressure!"

"_Something…something's wrong here, sir! Why aren't they panicking?_"

"Huh?"

"_Well, they just had their chance to burn prograde and outrun us, but why haven't they?_"

Abruptly, two beams passed within fifty meters of Baker Actual, causing him to rapidly spin in their direction. The bogeys had rejoined, and were charging directly into their formation, but were still maneuvering out of their fire.

The first one cleared all six Leos, still firing as it passed through their plane. Baker Flight nearly fired at themselves trying to track it.

"Damn, he's fast!"

"_Baker Actual, incoming!_"

"What?" Fox turned just in time to catch a microsecond-long glimpse of the other Leo, beam saber extended, cut through his wingman in a single clean sweep as it blasted through the plane at a blistering 7100 meters a second, relative to their slower 6700 meters a second. The bogey had already cleared them by a few kilometers when Baker 1-3 exploded in a fiery blast.

"_Holy shit, commander, that was a beam saber!_"

"I know that, T.J., now loosen up!" Fox shouted back as formation broke apart. _On Earth, a Leo's shield is more a formality. But in space, where an attack can come from any direction, it's even more useless. The only people who carry them are the overcautious, or the ultraviolent. _

The Leo, with its 105 mm autocannon stowed on its thruster pack, burned retrograde, slowing itself down as it linked up with the other unit, still firing bursts from its beam rifle. As the formation broke up, it managed to lock onto Baker 1-4 and deliver a few beam blasts that knocked off its arms before destroying the starboard vernier thruster and stabilizer. Baker 1-4 spun out of control for a few seconds before the Leo adjusted its aim and sent another particle burst through hits chest, killing the pilot instantly and breaking it into burning pieces. Its companion burned at full retrograde, closing in on them.

"_He's going to charge four Leos with a beam saber? Who the hell is this guy?_" T.J. asked.

"_He already charged six, why not?_"

"Cut the chatter! Buchanan, where the hell are you?" Fox demanded as he fired his weapon at the jinking target, unable to land a solid hit. _Who the hell can jink like that and not kill themselves? _

Abruptly, his entire mobile suit shook violently enough compress his chest against the restraints, and he was disoriented. Outside, one of the Leos had literally crashed into him and was now maneuvering his machine around as an improvised shield as it took shots at the rest of the flight.

"Sonovabitch!" he snapped, as he pulled on his joysticks and tried to use his arms to break free. The Zodiac might have been a better pilot, but his machine was no more advanced than his, and he able to in a second, though not after the Leo ripped something out of his machine's back first. _No time to worry about that! _"Eat this, Zodiac!"

Maneuvering around to face his enemy, he fired several shots at Zodiac, which immediately protected its torso with both arms. He grinned as he managed to score a single hit. "Not so goddamn fast now, are ya?"

"_Baker Actual, jink!_"

Instinctively, he fired his vernier and managed to narrowly avoid a crippled friendly as he crossed the space he'd just been in like a burning comet. The beam saber-carrying Leo had managed to throw it his way. Unfortunately, his maneuver meant that the other bogey had a chance to fire back, and managed to cleanly blow off one of its legs.

"Able Flight, where the fuck are you?" he screamed as alarm tones went off all over his cockpit. As if to answer his question, the bogey stopped engaging him and turned to fire several distant shots at a stream of lights just above the horizon.

"Oh, to hell with this!" Another Alliance pioneer shouted inside his own cockpit as he prepared for an emergency prograde burn, anything to get out of this situation. "Bugging out!" he yelled as he was about to go full burn when he machine shook violently and his forward display bent just enough to shatter, leaving him blind. The other bogey had literally snuck up behind him and shanked him with a beam saber, cutting clean through his thruster pack and torso. His entire machine went dead as the bogey burned away.

Meanwhile, Fox was still valiantly but vainly exchanging shots with the beam rifle-carrying Leo. Missing his machine's left leg, his maneuverability was suffering even more, and he didn't expect to keep this up. He punched his left fist against his communications switches on his instrumental panel.

_Fucker got my antenna! _"T.J., listen to me, goddamn it! Get back to D-One-Twenty, and tell them OZ has someone who can fight in space!"

"_Sir, yes sir!_" T.J. screamed back, sounding terrified. Fox was cut off when the bogey scored a pair of clean hits on his center torso, the first shredding through the armored cockpit hatch and the second one killing him instantly. For good measure, the bogey fired a third shot into the cockpit, puncturing the fusion reactor and sending the Leo rocketing away before it exploded.

In her own machine, Lieutenant Colonel Soris Armonia watched Fox's Leo explode, and then turned to her starboard display, watching the last survivor of Baker Flight retreat.

"_Should I get him_?" a younger woman asked over the channel.

"Negative, Luna. Let him run. The rest of the company ought to be working up their nerve and coming for us soon, they're our objective," she told her calmly. She deactivated the magnets in the collar of her normal suit and pulled off the helmet, her yellow-and-orange hair flowing free.

"Affirmative, Soris."

"I hope this isn't the best the Alliance has to throw at us, or we won't be in space for long," she said, grinning evilly as her machine stored its beam saber back in its shield and withdrew its autocannon again. A quick burst from her vernier thrusters and she was facing in the direction of Able Flight as it approached.

A less-clear voice came over the channel. "Ma'am, four contacts inbound from zero-three-zero. Do you need backup?"

"Negative, Aretha. This won't be any trouble," she said as she magnified the nearest bogey on her HUD.

**V**

"I _cannot _wait for leave."

Flight Officer David Bishop was bouncing a tennis ball against the concrete wall in the waiting room.

"Who would have thought a town in far west China would be boring?" Mazuri commented, as the tennis ball bounced against the wall near his head. He was reading an imported glamor magazine with well-endowed Caucasian woman in a brightly-colored bikini on the cover.

Dac stared at Mazuri for a few seconds after catching the tennis ball, before bouncing it again, a little closer to his head. Mazuri kept reading his magazine.

"Where are you going?" Dac asked.

"Shanghai, with Kanna."

"I thought she was going to visit home in Okinawa. It's not far, after all."

"She still is. Connecting flight there."

OZ at Jiuquan enjoyed a few privileges: among them, those mobile suit pilots and engineers stationed there got access to supersonic transport aircraft, part of the civilian carrier China International's fleet, for leave. Free of charge, the aircraft would ferry officers to all the major Chinese cities: Shanghai, Beijing, New Taipei, Guangzhou. If you were willing to leave in the evening, and had the clearance, you could even take a flight to Beijing International and take a connection to Tokyo or Seoul or even Vladivostok. The trip took between forty and eighty minutes. By contrast, the locals had to take the a commuter train to a HSR junction at Lanzhou, and take a three hour train ride if they wanted to go to Beijing.

"Lucky her. I wouldn't mind visiting my parents," Dac admitted, holding the tennis ball after catching it. "I think my dad's still obsessed with that boat."

Mazuri chuckled at the comment as Dac resumed bouncing the tennis ball across the room. Carrying a briefcase, Walker entered, also wearing his service uniform.

"'Morning, Flight Lieuy," Mazuri told him, briefly looking up from his magazine.

"'Morning."

"Hey, Walker, where are you going?" Dac asked. "For leave, I mean."

There was a Chinese-language calendar hanging from the wall, which Walker flipped through. "Hong Kong, with Kanna."

"Really?"

"I'm not following her to Okinawa," he told him. "I've got family in Hong Kong I'd like to meet."

Walker finished with the calendar, before leaving the room. Mazuri glanced at Dac.

"Family?"

Dac shrugged back at him.

**VI**

"Doctor, will you be joining us for dinner?"

Eva Cebotari sat over a desk in the library, her leather folder open to a center page. She glanced over her shoulder at the manservant at the door.

"No, Pagan, thank you."

The manservant nodded his mustache and slowly left the room, closing the door. She turned back to the document.

**Dame Eva, the Foundation board of directors still appreciates your investigation of one if its members, Treize Khushrenada, prior to his induction into the board two years ago. Accordingly, I believe you to be uniquely able to lead an inquiry into a senior officer of the Order of the Zodiac.**

**Let me be completely clear: no one in the Foundation wants a valued officer like Zechs Merquise to tender his resignation, particularly given the current military campaigns throughout the Earth-Sphere. But we still feel it to be only prudent that his behavior be monitored. We knew this day was coming: the liberation of the Sanc Kingdom by OZ would be followed by Millardo Peacecraft's return to the public life. However, his unusual behavior in the last weeks, particularly since his return from Eurasia on 9 June, poses an unintentional obstacle to military affairs.**

**Please follow Major Acht's recommendations for the investigation. I look forward to your report by the end of this month.**

**With Warm Regards,**

**Duke Dermail Catalonia,**  
><strong>Chairman of the Romefeller Foundation<strong>

Eva closed the folder and held it under one arm, as she rose from the desk. _An unintentional obstacle to military affairs. That's how Romefeller looks at its internal problems._

Right before exiting the library, she tapped the small metal OZ emblem pinned to her blazer's lapel. The discreet motion activated an earpiece and transmitter hidden in her small left earring.

Every floor of the Darlian Estate was littered with bugs. The hidden microphones were only so useful, as Relena Darlian was smart enough to leave the grounds whenever she was engaging in anything incriminating, and Eva could only follow her so often. The bugs themselves were planted by Eva's woman on the inside, codename "Lyra."

_If Parsons know's what's good for him, he's looking for a way to prove me wrong, or a way out. _That was how the Military Commissariat in OZ worked, officials on the same assignment tried to disprove each other's theories. If they couldn't, all the better. The Zechs Merquise problem had no easy solution, to everyone's annoyance.

Eva checked her wristwatch: it was about time for her to report in. She left the library and climbed down the steps, passing by a few maids shuffling about with bed sheets. One of them might be Lyra, Eva didn't know her by appearance, only reputation.

She exited out into the courtyard and walked over to an armored military van with a black paintjob. The two OZ noncommissioned officers waiting inside the driver's cabin exited and saluted as she climbed into the back. The inside of the van's main cabin was lined with military-grade communications and ECM hardware, typically seen in battlefield support vehicles or even helicopters.

She undid her blazer and tie, before taking the former off and tossing it on a console. Hanging from a post on the ceiling was a bulky communications helmet, featuring a pair of high-resolution minidisplays, a pair of speakers, and a sensitive microphone. She lifted it off the post and put it on, tapping the small switch on the right side.

The two minidisplays completely dominated her field of vision. After the BIOS loaded, it showed the high-level security protocols needed to connect to the military network.

"User is Eva Cebotari, OZ Military Commissariat. Link me to the General Staff, they'll be expecting me."

The machine automatically scanned her retinas and checked her voice against records in the central database of the Military Commissariat. After confirmation, the display changed to a number of dark blue icons, standing like monoliths, each bearing OZ's insignia. The one in the center had gold trim around it.

**OZ 01**

**LUXEMBOURG**

**SOUND ONLY**

_Treize Khushrenada. _"Sirs, I'll begin with my report on Zechs Merquise and Relena Darlian."

Treize's smooth voice responded. "_Please do, Doctor._"

**VII**

Walker's four-man team stood on the airfield at Jiuquan, watching the supersonic liners pass by. Kaneshiro stood, in full service uniform, watching the aircraft taxi across the tarmac noisily.

"Tail number Bravo-Eight-Eight-Zero-Two. That's our flight," Dac said, looking at their tickets.

"We'll see you in two days, sirs," Mazuri said, slinging his luggage over his back.

"Don't get into too much trouble," Kanna jeered, cupping her mouth with one hand, as they walked off.

"It's nice seeing the two of them get along so well," Walker observed.

"Yeah, it sort of is." Kanna glanced at Walker. "What business do you have in Hong Kong?"

"No business. Just meeting family."

"Oh." She laughed nervously, scratching the back of her head. "Sorry about that, I didn't mean to imply anything."

She scanned the area once more. "Hey, over there! Tail number Bravo-Two-Zero-Two-Eight! Let's go!"

Grabbing her man-sized duffle bag with one hand, she walked off to the right, leaving Walker to smile at the back of her head before grabbing his own small briefcase. Within a few minutes, they were sitting at their seats in the passenger cabin, watching officers awkwardly flirt with flight attendants.

"'Figured this would be one of my best chances to visit the family in Haebaru, Okinawa Prefecture. I mean, how many times am I going to be posted this close to home?"

"Good point," Walker. "Big family?"

"Pretty big. What about you, sir. You're from Ontario, right?"

He nodded. "Not very big. None of us are in Ontario anymore, anyway."

She propped herself against the armrest. "I heard you have a sister in OZ as well, in space."

"She originally in the Alliance, that's correct. Outer space liaison, whatever that means."

"Any brothers?"

Walker stared at Kanna, raising an eyebrow. "No. I was the eldest."

Kanna was about to respond when she watched Walker turn his head and somberly stare out the airplane window as the airliner began to taxi. She leaned back in her seat and stretched out, touching the ceiling and floor.

"Is that so."

**VIII**

"_Flight, break formation and take evasive action!_"

A pair of Alliance Antonov strategic airlifters about 9000 meters over the outskirts of Vilnus broke up their tight formation while deploying chaff and countermeasures. Rising out of the thick cloud cover, a black Aries flight emerged seven-hundred meters behind them. They both mounted black, cylindrical ECM pods in the place of a second missile pod.

"_Where the hell did they come from?_"

The Alliance pilot in the lead carrier aircraft lifted up her bulky helmet-mounted display and checked her instrumentation. "No idea, commander. Setting course for two-nine-five, anyone see our escorts?"

The copilot, still wearing her helmet, braced herself as the aircraft turned violently. "No sign of them."

In the lead Aries, F/L Ogasawara Emi exhaled sharply, her breath visible in the poorly heated cockpit. Target designation boxes appeared over both aircraft on her HUD and she changed her heading. The silhouette of the nearest enemy target rose through her HUD's boresight and pitch ladder. Her mobile suit's arms adjusted the chain rifle, and the aircraft was highlighted by the aiming reticle.

_Designate target. Aim. Shoot._

She squeezed the trigger in her right stick, sending a burst of fire at the aircraft's port wing, blowing giant chunks out of its turbines. In the meantime, her wingman broke off, chasing the other aircraft.

A countermeasure flare bounced harmlessly off her machine's cranium, briefly killing visual input. Emi had been awake for approaching forty hours, and had spent the last thirteen in her machine. She hadn't eaten, and barely drank in the meantime. She was shivering in her crop top, but the bags under her eyes were a better indication of her discomfort.

_Designate target. Aim. Shoot. _Another burst of fire completely severed the wing from the carrier from the body, and it spun wildly out of control. She exhale again, her breath visible and beginning to fog up her goggles.

"I'm pursuing target. Cover me, Indira."

She dipped her machine into the cloud cover. After a few seconds, she cleared the layer, and was greeted to the sight of the carrier spinning towards the earth, smoke and fuel leaking out of it and onto her machine's main camera. A large part of the main body broke free and she spotted something among the spinning wreckage.

"Leo spotted. Engaging." She manually steered her aiming reticle and sent a burst of fire at a mostly-intact Leo as it broke free from the aircraft. Another burst, and it broke into pieces. For a split second, an Alliance solider, possibly its pilot, flew by, casting a black smudge across her forward display.

"_Flight leader, watch your altitude! You're coming up on seven-five-hundred._"

"Acknowledged," she mumbled, pulling back her stick. OZ was fighting war on a timetable and the Belarusian Front was dragging on, with the assumption that the Alliance would break before the end of the month. Meanwhile, everyone from tank crews to mobile suit officers were running triple shifts. The Eurasians were taking it better, calling in reserves and cycling units in and out. That wasn't an option for OZ.

"_This is Indira, second target is on fire!_"

Inside the remaining Alliance aircraft, the pilot and copilot began undoing their restraints, their cockpit filled with smoke. The copilot struggled, yanking off her bulky helmet and having to be helped by the pilot out of the front row. A second later, there was a flash and both women were vaporized.

"_Aircraft just exploded. Repeat, second target exploded. Regrouping with you, Emi_," Indira's machine announced as it narrowly avoided the huge fireball where the aircraft had been.

_I'm getting tired of Belarus. First Recon is not a frontline battle unit. If we were, we would not be called 'Recon', damn it. _Emi scowled in her cockpit angrily, her face paint and lipstick largely faded. An instrument panel just past her left hand flickered and she pounded her fist against it as an improvised fix. _Figures the Gundams are gone, and instead of a small number of meaningful battles, we're fighting nonstop battles of dubious consequence. Was this what brought down the Alliance?_

**IX**

_That is one very tall building. _

Walker stood the shadow of the colossal International Commerce Centre building, a two-hundred year old 118-floor tall skyscraper that had been remarkably preserved over the centuries, a symbol of Hong Kong's enormous power during the corporatist period before the rise of the Alliance. There was supposed to be another building, the International Finance Centre, completed around the same time that had been destroyed when the Chinese government retook Hong Kong from InterChina, one of the powerful conglomerates that had briefly become sovereign nations in that bloody period.

Adjusting his camera zoom, Walker took a digital snapshot of the building from the ground level, before hailing a taxi. It took him to a small teahouse in the historic part of the Central District. He was the only military officer there, much less member of OZ. A few people glanced at him, with his goggles on his forehead and his white cape. He wasn't very discreetly dressed.

"Oswald! Oswald, over here!"

Sitting in one of the front tables at the tea house, in a dark grey three-piece suit, striped tie and dark hat, was a lean, elder Chinese man in his seventies, with combed-back hair.

Walker smiled and removed his cap and goggles, walking over to the table. The old man rose out of his chair—he was shorter than Walker, his suit almost baggy on his lanky frame—and strolled over to him. The two exchanged a hug, forcing the old man to reach up.

"Oswald, it is you! How wonderful to see you again, after so long," he said with his particular accent.

"Hello, Mr. Wú. It's been a long time." Wú Minshiang, or as he was better known, Michael Wú, knew Walker longer than anyone else alive, with the exception of his mother. And Walker had known Mr. Wú for almost as long as he'd known anyone else, including his mother.

"Please, sit, sit!" he insisted, pointing to the empty table. "You know, I get a call from your mother, saying you haven't called her since that _horrible _attack in the Mediterranean, and that you finally call her!"

"Well, I did."

"You should have earlier!" he said, reaching over and smacking him weakly on the head. He kept smiling from ear to ear. "But it is so good to see you again. I can't believe that I'd meet you here, in Hong Kong, of all places!"

After his father, Christopher Walker, was killed, Walker's mother was able to collect on the pension owed to her as an Alliance war widow. But Walker's mother worked, and two children were a lot to manage for a single parent. So Mr. Wú, who managed the motorcycle dealership Walker's father had frequented since his days as a young man, offered them a place to go after school when their mother was at her own job.

"I'm actually stationed in the far west," Walker explained. "I heard you'd come her after Canada retook Windsor."

"Ah, yes. Well, I'd already sold the business almost a year ago, and I thought it would be nice to see Hong Kong at least once more."

Mr. Wú had actually come from Minneapolis to Windsor, when he already fifty. was That was more than twenty years ago, but his energy let him move like a much younger man. He spoke in heavily accented English with certain words overemphasized or stretched out, though Walker suspected he did this deliberately because he thought it was witty.

"But enough about _me_, look at _you_! A real big shot in OZ now! I always told your mother the Alliance wasn't a bad choice for you, even after what happened to your father. Though it didn't happen like I expected, quite frankly."

He cocked his head a little and cut off Walker before he could respond. "But who cares about politics! Look at you, a big shot, and still only nineteen. When I was nineteen, I waited _tables_. You…what exactly is it that you do again?"

Walker sighed, putting a hand against his head. "I'm a mobile suit flight leader."

"And what is a _flight_?" he asked, stretching out the last word.

"It's an…organizational unit in the military, between a team and a squadron." He sighed, then tried to elaborate. "I have a permanent command of four machines and operational command over a most flights I'm posted with."

"I see. And, tell me, how is that…different from what you did before you were promoted?"

Walker stared at Mr. Wú. _Before, my cape was red. And I only got to wear it in ceremony. _"It's…not that different, I suppose, then when I was in the Middle East Air Army. My pay rose."

"That's good!"

Walker was about to try again when Mr. Wú called a waiter in Cantonese and ordered food for both of them.

"So, how are your comrades? You must have new ones now, right?"

That was true. "They're a decent bunch. Do you remember David Bishop? From back home?"

"I remember a handsome boy who was a _slacker _and _not very bright _either," he told him, distastefully.

"Yes, him. Anyway, he's in my command now."

"Oh really?" Mr. Wú's tone had changed significantly. "How wonderful! There's really nothing more important in life than good friends. Good friends, and family, of course."

Walker stared at Mr. Wú a little, his head cocked. "Right."

The waiter returned with a tea pot and egg soup, which Mr. Wú immediately helped himself to. "We can talk while we eat, so, eat! You're still so thin, you know? Just like your father. He looked like a hawk too. A skinny hawk."

Walker rubbed the tip of his thin nose. "Thanks, Mr. Wú."

The two started with their soup and tea. "That was nasty business those Colonials and their war machines. What was that they were called again? Guntanks?"

"Gundams, they're called Gundams," Walker said between spoons. "It's just the name for a mobile suit made of a special alloy, Gundanium."

"They haven't appeared in the news recently. Just a few weeks ago, seemed like they were all the media was talking about. Now…nothing." Mr. Wú raised an eyebrow at him. "I don't suppose you would know anything about that, would you?"

Walker didn't have to lie. "No, and if I did, I wouldn't be able to tell you." OZ was not a country, and thus, could not legally censor media firms or corporations. OZ was also under no legal obligation to tell any government or media organization anything at all. The Alliance was legally obligated to report to its member states, though not to their news networks, but did so out of tradition. The same situation might arise with OZ, eventually.

"Of course, of course. I heard from your mother what happened to you with the Gundams at Corsica. You're very lucky to be alive."

"I'm sure I am."

"It must be a relief though, not having to fight them. Especially now that OZ is going into space, and might try reasoning with the colonies." Mr. Wú finished his soup. "Do you think you'll be going into space. Or can you not say?"

"I may, though it's not certain. My unit is pegged for the space forces."

"Going into space, how exciting!" he said in his old, high-pitched voice. "Have you ever been in outer space?"

He actually had to think about it. It'd certainly been a while ago, hadn't it? "Twice, I think? Low orbit operations, nothing in deep space."

"What is it like?"

"Just like flying, really," Walker told him.

Their entrée arrived, fried rice with shrimp and fried dumplings with beef and vegetables. Walker took the porcelain chopsticks and began eating, as did Mr. Wú. Walker glanced briefly at the thin television hanging from a nearby wall.

"So, how is Aretha?" he asked, not taking his eyes off the television.

Mr. Wú chuckled. "I was wondering when you would ask. Your sister, as usual, has made effort to stay in touch with your family and myself," he explained to him in a condescending tone.

"I already know she's in the space forces," Walker said, trying not to sound irritated. "I'm sure she's taking care of herself just fine, I was just being curious."

"Well, since you're so _curious_, we conferenced a few weeks ago. And yes, she's doing fine. She has done something strange with her hair though, she bleached part of it so she has a white streak on the left side now, very strange…"

"Very strange," Walker mumbled between bites.

"I think she did it for her boss, I think she has a little bit of a crush."

"I see…"

Mr. Wú looked at him. "What about you? Find a special someone yet?"

"No, not particularly," he said, still watching television.

"I still think you missed your chance with that Rani girl. She liked you so much, and she was pretty, and she was willing to put up with you…"

"I might have," he admitted, still looking in the other direction. "I guess that's how things work out sometimes."

Mr. Wú frowned at Walker and just shook his head. "Very wasteful."

"Excuse me, could you raise the volume on the television please?" he asked a nearby waitress, in English since he didn't know any Cantonese. With the volume raised, he could hear a helmet and vest-wearing field reporter for European Broadcasting Company speaking from in front of the remains of a mobile suit.

"_I'm standing here outside Fortress Daugavpils, in the southern tip of Latvia. In what used to be a small city twenty kilometers from the borders of Latvia and Belarus, Alliance forces have held out against nearly nonstop siege warfare since the May Revolutions. More than a month ago, when OZ launched its military coup against Alliance rule, these soldiers and pilots were confined to their barracks, the chain-of-command for the Alliance's East European District destroyed by OZ. Since then, the Alliance has controlled large sections of territories in the Baltics from their headquarters at Daugavpils, an obstinate holdout against OZ's worldwide war of revolution._"

"Daugavpils?" Mr. Wú asked, struggling with the name a little.

"It's a city in northeastern Europe." On the large, high-definition screen, you could clearly make out explosions in the landscape behind the reporter.

"_But with the civil war in Riga deciding the political future of not just Latvia, but also Lithuania and Estonia, the Alliance's time here may be up. No more than an hour ago, aerial bombardment of Daugavpils was replaced by an unstoppable artillery barrage. While there's been no word from Minsk, we're confident that these artillery is coming from across the border to the east, courtesy of the Red Army. Daugavpils is now in reach of Eurasian artillery, along with OZ mobile suits. The Alliance's defensive advantage is now lost, and with Riga in turmoil, they may be left with no allies to count on, while OZ, and the new regime, move in for the kill. This is Tom Bernett, EBC International, from Latvia._"

"Can you believe, even with the Gundams gone, there's still so much fighting going on? I'm sure you're happy not to be over there though. It looks _very _bad," Mr. Wú suggested.

"Yes, I can." Walker sighed and turned from the television as the image changed to three anchors sitting in a news studio, then strummed his fingers against the table.

"I don't envy you young people. When I was your age, there was war in the world, yes, but there wasn't war _everywhere_. And at the same time!" he told him.

"If there wasn't, I suppose they wouldn't need soldiers like myself," Walker replied.

"I guess you have already figured that out, Oswald," Mr. Wú said. "I'm sure some of your comrades in the military are planning their lives after the war ends, or when they leave or whatever, but I can't imagine you're doing that. I mean, look at you, almost killed two months ago, and you're even more a solider than you were before! It's a little surprising!"

"I suppose it is…" Walker said quietly, looking back at the screen. The video changed to a cloud of Aries mobile suits, both OZ and Alliance, exchanging fire over what was probably the American Midwest. "I think some of them are preparing for the rest of their lives."

"And what about you?"

Walker watched the news footage, as a grey Alliance mobile suit exploded into a fireball, chunks of it plummeting to the ground, leaving fiery trails behind them.

"What was it I'd say? That'd I'd do whatever it took, to prepare the soldiers of the future?" he mumbled faintly.

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Okay, that was a bit more stalling/filler than I would have liked, hopefully in of itself was still enjoyable and contributed to the After Colony setting in a meaningful way. This are slowly coming together, and hopefully _The Glory of Losers _will answer a few questions relating to Relena by the time the next chapter is out. _

_In the meantime, for your patience, a bit of reference: in the TV series, both OZ and the Specials use a unique functional rank system. It doesn't translate as elegantly into English (one of the reasons why you see Treize referred to as both a general and a colonel), and as a result, I've given OZ mid-ranking officers the ranks used by the British RAF, with slight modifications. Here they are, with their NATO grades and Alliance counterparts (when there is a variation):_

Colonel (OF-5) Treize  
>Lieutenant Colonel (OF-4) ZechsUne/Soris  
>Squadron CommanderMajor (OF-3) Krist/Eva  
>Flight LieutenantCaptain (OF-2) Walker/Noin/Emi  
>Flight OfficerSenior Lieutenant (OF-1) Kanna/Indira/Mazuri  
>Pilot OfficerJunior Lieutenant (OF-1) Dac/Aretha

_All mobile suit pilots in OZ are commissioned officers, while in the Alliance, a rare few were senior noncommissioned officers (mostly enlisted men with very long careers). Thus, all recruits at Lake Victoria start out as Officer Candidates (as well as others, like Parsons). _

_I will be moving a bit further in the next chapter, and brace myself for whatever retconning/reconciling turns out to be necessary. I still don't know what Une did to stop the Gundams in _The Glory of Losers, _which bothers me to no end—I guess that's how Walker feels!_

_P.S. To derive maximum enjoyment while reading this, you must imagine __Mr. Wú is voiced by venerable Chinese-American actor James Hong, just like no one but a younger Michie Tomizawa could voice the sexy sort-of-rival commander Emi._


	16. The Daugavpils Redemption

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 16 **– Daugavpils Redemption****

_June 27__th__, AC 195, Outside Maladzyechna, Belarusian Republic_

Wearing her trademark crop top with a pair of wool Red Army breeches and riding boots and with her long hair bound in a long ponytail, Ogasawara Emi entered the command center outside Minsk. The early-warning radar center at Maladzyechna served as OZ's headquarters for the Belarusian Front, and since drab olive was much harder to stain than white, she'd switched her pants.

In front of a large paper map, Squadron Commander Karl Jäger spoke to a Eurasian Army Captain in Russian, gesturing to the border with Lithuania. When they failed to notice her enter, she slammed her palms against the table in the middle of the room, leaning over it.

Jäger turned in the direction of the interruption. "If it isn't our beautiful first recon commander," Jäger said humorously in English, as the Eurasian officer leaned towards the map and circled a sector with a red pencil.

"You called?" she growled.

"How's your third seat?"

"Still in the traction. Bad leg."

Jäger nodded. "Captain Kalchenko reports the Seventy-Ninth and Thirty-Ninth Guards have progressed far enough that Alliance HQ at Daugavpils is within range of their artillery. Accordingly, they're pulling out and are relocating to the northwest, possibly Riga."

Kalchenko sighed loudly, before scribbling more on the map.

Jäger stared at the back of his head before turning back to Emi. "We're taking advantage to move the Seventeenth Division into Daugavpils. Your team will cover the ground units as cross the front." He blinked. "Are you listening, Lieutenant?"

Emi cocked her head, her eyes closed, and raised a finger at the ceiling. "What was that you said, sir?"

"Excuse me?"

"What did you say before?"

"…the Seventeenth Division?"

"Before that."

"Kalchenko?"

"Before that," she growled.

"…First Recon?"

Emi pounded her left fist against the table hard enough to knock over a jar of pencils. "That's it. Sir, do you know why the Special Recon Battalion was organized?"

"I have a feeling I'm about to find out," he said, crossing his arms.

"Luxembourg sent units from Special Recon out here for raids, battlefield shaping, and recon. If you want to drag out this into a slugfest with Alliance holdouts with literally nothing left to lose, that's fine, but like hell you'll be using First Recon for it!"

"Ogasawara, I'm aware that you dislike my style of command, and I apologize for not sending you and your men to your deaths yet. In the meantime, though, Luxembourg put me in command, and I suggest you suck it up and follow your orders," he snapped back at her, calm by comparison.

Emi stared at him hatefully as Kalchenko approached table, hands behind his back. He glanced at Emi, then Jäger, then back at Emi.

"Comrade Flight Lieutenant," he said with his accent. "Right now, satellite recon says Alliance HQ is still in the area of Daugavpils."

"But you _can't _confirm _where_," Jäger yelled in his face, causing the other man to shrink a little before continuing.

"Correct, but I still think we have an excellent opportunity," he said, walking back to the map. He drew pencil marks heading north and west into Latvia. "My command, the Seventy-Ninth Guards, and Rykov's Thirty-Ninth are ready to converge west of Daugavpils along these vectors. But we're motor rifles and low on fuel, they can outrun us if they try."

He circled a point near Daugavpils. "We think they'll be here. Illukste. Perhaps two-thirds of a Leo company, and one Aries Flight?"

"I'd like to go on the record of saying this is a bad, and dangerous, idea…"

"That's six Aries and maybe ten Leos. Sixteen mobile suits to guard the mobile HQ."

"We can take whatever the Alliance has on the ground, but we're very short of anti-mobile weapons. Especially against Aries. But this may be our best chance, Comrade Flight Lieutenant," Kalchenko offered. " An aerial insertion and raid, coinciding with our assault."

"…and will probably result in the deaths of any mobile suit troops sent after it," Jäger continued, raising his voice. "God _damn _it, Anatoly, just shut up! Can you do that?"

"With respect, Comrade Squadron Commander, this isn't Siberia. I don't take orders from you."

"Sixteen. For an insertion, I'd need four machines, all with ECM pods and overloaded with ammo. What about helicopters?"

"I know a senior lieutenant in Frontal Aviation, I think…that would be possible."

"Is anyone even listening to me?" Jäger demanded angrily, now shouting.

"Luxembourg wants Belarus clear by the end of the month, this is our best chance to do it. With their HQ gone, the rest of the units will be Latvia and Lithuania's problem. Let them see how the Alliance plays civil war." She looked up from the papers on the table. "Tovarisch Kombat Kalchenko!"

Kalchenko stood at attention. "Yes ma'am!"

"Call your girlfriend in Frontal Aviation. We need as many helicopters as she can spare, _now_."

"Understood," he said, putting on his visor cap and saluting, before leaving the room. Emi turned back to the, tracing her hands along the different sectors.

"You know, there's a…seventy percent chance you'll give the Alliance a last-minute victory," Jäger added calmly.

She tapped her finger over a Eurasian unit on the map. "In that case, Squadron Commander, you can kiss my beautiful ass."

**II**

At the Renaissance Yu Garden hotel in Shanghai, David Ackerson Bishop sat on the bedspread in the double room he shared with A. K. Mazuri. He'd traded his service uniform for khakis and a sweater, and was watching the large television mounted to the wall.

"Are you still watching television? It'll rot your brain."

"See, that's where I disagree with you, Mazuri," he replied. He was watching a Japanese variety show, where people performed skits in front of an audience and panel of judges. "Now, violence, _that _will rot your brain."

Mazuri entered, dressed in a dark blue suit with a striped tie, which he was adjusting. He'd purchased the ensemble for the occasion. "You know why we came here, right?" he asked.

"The Hyatt Regency was all booked up because of the filmmaker's convention?"

"I meant Shanghai. Why we're in Shanghai." He put a hand on the other man's shoulder. "First, we're going to get you some clothes that don't make you look like a college sophomore. Then, before we're called back to the goddamn west, we're going to take in the nightlife. I mean, come on, this is _Shanghai, _man!"

He turned back to Dac, to see he was staring at the television, having changed the channel.

"What's the news?"

"Some big move in the northeastern Europe, near Russia. I think the campaign there is coming to an end, or something."

"The Belarusian Front."

"Yeah, there. I'm startin' to think…maybe…we should do something about these news networks."

Mazuri smirked. "Easy there, you're sounding dangerously close to a certain one of our countrymen."

Dac blinked, then stood up. "You know, I think I'd look good in that," he said, pointing at his clothes. "But not as blue. Do they make it in grey?"

**III**

Emi went through the handful of possessions she had in Belarus—a compact German machine pistol, her ceremonial katana, a miniature notebook computer, and a few other items. She rooted around, pushing aside folded service uniform and took out a large plastic container, about the size of the box you'd get a new blazer in.

Inside it, sitting in molded foam, was a composite body armor vest, made of multiple thin layers of synthetic fibers and flexible metals. The whole thing was encased inside a carbon fiber sleeve. Despite the practice unique to the mobile suit troops of wearing service uniforms in-cockpit, OZ would issue any pilot who asked for it a reduced version of the combat armor worn by Alliance and now OZ ground infantry. But even among the infantry, a lot of soldiers forsook combat armor, which couldn't do that much against the modern high-velocity rounds used in military small arms.

Emi's was different. Besides being made out of exorbitantly expensive materials, she'd had it made in Japan by a manufacturer she'd known before her military career began. It didn't extend below her waist or to her arms, but it was actually molded to fit her chest extremely closely, to the point that you could wear it underneath a uniform if you had to.

She pulled off her crop top. Coincidentally, wearing clothes underneath it wasn't really comfortable, especially if you started breathing hard and folds started forming. She fished out a clean bra from the dressed in her room, and after putting in on, unfolded the composite vest.

_Still fits. At least I'm not gaining weight. _She frowned as she fit herself into the two parts of the flexible vest, then began closing the straps that held them together under her arms. _Or losing it, given my sleeping and eating habits. _Emi liked the way her body looked, and didn't care for it changing. It that made her vain, so be it.

She'd only worn the vest twice before, and never in combat. Making sure the vest was secured, she pulled her double-breasted service jacket on over it, leaving it unbuttoned. Pausing for a moment, she took the machine pistol, then left the room.

Past the OZ barracks, with the rest of the Red Army, she found the man she was looking for: Anatoly Kalchenko, of the 79th Guards Motorized Rifles Battalion. He was actually buckling himself into his own combat armor over his camouflaged combat vest.

"Captain," she said.

Kalchenko turned and did a visible double-take, probably at the vest. "Comrade Flight Lieutenant," he repeated. "The divisions are standing by."

"Sorry for keeping you waiting then," she told him, not sounding very sincere. "I need one more seat."

"I'm not rushing you, Comrade. Time may be of the essence, but even with six mobile suits in support, our chances here aren't…very good…" He removed his cap. "Come with me, you should see the men."

Kalchenko led her a short distance away, to the staging area. Armored vehicles surrounded two distinct groups of soldiers, setting up their equipment and making final preparations.

Doing a quick head count, Emi angrily stared at Kalchenko. "…plus twenty…that's three hundred men. That's a lot fewer than I was counting on."

"The Thirty-Ninth Guards has four hundred."

"So you're telling me we have seven hundred men between the both of you," Emi asked, counting again.

"Yes ma'am."

The flight lieutenant spun back to Kalchenko, shooting him an angry look that made him very uncomfortable. "I thought you were supposed to be a _battalion _commander!"

"Battalion commanders are normally majors or lieutenant colonels, ma'am. I'm _partial _battalion commander. Bartov, commander of the Thirty-Ninth, is a major."

Looking up at the sky, Emi covered her face with a hand. "I thought you'd have twice that many."

"Do you want to abort the attack, Comrade Flight Lieutenant?"

She didn't respond, instead pulling off her uniform jacket and walking away.

"Where are you going, ma'am?"

"To talk to my wingman!" she yelled back at him.

Her wingman, Flight Officer Carlos Motta, was an eighteen-year-old Brazilian national, a young man of few words and with hair that was starting to go grey along with handsome features. His leg was still in a brace, having not completely healed since he fractured it less than two weeks ago.

He'd been talking in Japanese with F/O Tsujimoto Nabiki. Carlos was from São Paulo, where there were large numbers of Japanese speakers, and while his wasn't very good, he was one of those people who really wanted to improve, though for what particular reason Emi wasn't sure.

"Good afternoon, Emisan." Emi insisted everyone refer to her by her given name.

"Good afternoon. Nabikichan, would you mind checking the machines?"

It wasn't a request so much as an order. She stared at Emi, her eye patch partially hidden by her side bangs, before standing up walking out of the room, still munching on a box of chocolates.

"She only gave me one chocolate," Carlos pointed out.

"Yes, I'm sure she loves you," Emi countered. "How's your leg?"

He flexed his leg a little bit, the braces squeaking a little.

"That will have to do," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. "You know Kalchenko and Bartov?"

He nodded.

"They've got seven hundred men between the two of them."

Motta stared at her. "_Nana…_"

"_Nana Hyaku_," Emi repeated, holding up seven fingers.

Motta blinked. "That is not very many."

"Yes, I know that. Which means we need you in the air." She stood up off the foot of the bed and stretched her arms over her head. "So get dressed, we're leaving in ten."

Motta sighed deeply, his hands resting by his sides over the bed sheet. He looked back up at Emi, or rather, her back. "That's a really nice vest Emisan," he said, using the English word 'vest'.

She rolled his eyes as she stretched, touching the small of her back. "Carlos, I'm going to tell you what I told Jäger earlier today…"

A few hundred kilometers away, in the Baltic Sea, one of the fleets belonging the OZ Earth Army's naval branch, consisting of a number of missile frigates, a pair of destroyers, a single massive command ship, stood just out of range of the Alliance costal defense missile sites deployed throughout the Baltics.

"That's the report, Captain," a junior officer said in the communications room of the command ship.

The commander, holding a rank equivalent to that of a lieutenant colonel and distinguished by his unusual uniform—a hunter green tunic with gold and maroon epaulets, in the same pattern used by the Alliance navy, worn over a typical uniform blouse—looked over the recon report. "We'd better get this to cage, that's why he's here after all."

"Do you think he can handle it on his own, sir?"

"I'd hope so. I think we're all anxious to get the hell of here."

Flight Officer Cage glanced across the deck of the _Marshal Noventa. _The OZS _Noventa _was actually a unique command vessel, two existing Alliance supercarriers from 'Seventies that were grafted together into a catamaran-like super ship a few years earlier. The Alliance Navy had under a half-dozen such catamarans, and the _Noventa _was the only one still operation, since most of the navy had been scuttled or destroyed since 'Daybreak'.

"Sir, we just got report from Maladzyechna. First Recon spotted a submersible carrier on the Daugava River at Daugavpils. Likely to be used for high priority target evac out into the Baltic Sea."

Cage nodded. "That would be my cue to leave, thank you."

The junior officer saluted and Cage took a stairwell along a transport elevator to the lower decks, where a pair of machines was being prepared: an OZ-08MMS 'Cancer' and an OZ-09MMS 'Pisces'.

The crew chief looked up from his station. "Sir, we're all set here. Have you decided?"

Cage nodded. "Prep 'red' for launch."

"Yes, sir. If I may, Flight Officer, why 'red'?"

Cage nodded, walking up to a nearby console and checking the status of both machines. "You know I was originally in the Alliance Navy? About three years ago, I managed to impress someone in the Specials and was transferred to the Third Special Amphibious Flotilla. 'Amphibious' as in they used Pisces."

"Wasn't that the unit under Zechs Merquise?"

"The very one, though he only used it to search for the Gundams in the Pacific. Anyway, the Alliance never had any amphibious mobile suit units, and I'd wondered why that was the case. I found out why: the Alliance had commissioned OZ, the design bureau, to create two amphibious mobile suits, which they rolled out in the early 'Nineties. The Cancer can barely be called a mobile suit," he said, gesturing at the red-and-white submersible that lacked legs or conventional manipulators. "But it's flexible, maneuverable, has great armor and can carry all kinds of ordinance—torpedoes, surface-to-air missiles, surface-to-surface, et cetera."

"And the Pisces?"

"There's a reason the Alliance refused to adopt them. The Pisces handles much more like a mobile suit, but by being the only true amphibious mobile suit, it's got huge numbers of problems. It's only armed with the same kind of small torpedo as dropped by aircraft. The only other weapon it has its own 'claws' and mines it has to manually deploy. It's not nearly as robust, and besides its variable geometry, it's awkward and clumsy both in the water and on land. They based it on the hull of the canceled Type One-Sixty mini-sub."

He switched off the computer and pulled on his leather helmet. "The Alliance had the Specials to do the extremely rare amphibious mobile suit landing operations, so there was no need to deal with the headache. One aquatic mobile suit was enough otherwise."

The crew chief nodded, as the Cancer was loaded into the deck lift, where it would be lowered into the water. "I see, sir. That does explain why you're the only Pisces pilot I know."

"What's it carrying?"

"The usual: acoustically-guided torpedoes, and undersurface to air missiles for any escort helicopters." The crew chief showed him a tablet computer with the weapons listed on it. "You should only need one or two torpedo hits to flood the carrier."

**IV**

Captain Huang stalked through the halls outside the command-and-control center, in the dead of night. Many of the OZ pilots had gone on short leave, and the Alliance was in no position to launch a counterattack.

About ten years ago, when she was finishing secondary school, classmates had told Huang she was too pretty to enroll in the People's Liberation Air Force cadet school in the local provincial academy. She got the idea from her uncle, a captain and a genuine war hero from the late 'Seventies, and the Thailand Campaign. He'd been a tank commander, but Huang got the idea of going into the air force.

A decade later, she'd proven them wrong—and lost some of her beauty, perhaps, a small trade for the necessary hardness as a commissioned officer in the Chinese military. She could speak three languages—Mandarin, English and Vietnamese.

She approached Squadron Commander Wen's officer, only to find the light was on through the cracked-open door. She wasn't expecting Wen to be awake, and was about to turn back when he called for her.

"Huang, would you mind coming in?" he asked in Mandarin.

She entered and stood at attention.

"At ease." Wen was sitting at his desk, with no exercise equipment in sight. Instead he sat in his blouse, his hunter green tunic hanging on his chair, a teapot and a half-full ashtray sitting on his desk. A notebook computer also sat open on his desk.

"Is there something I can do for you, Comrade Major?"

Wen didn't respond immediately. She could see the illumination of battlefield statistics—probably unit strength reports—on his face as he slowly worked his way through another cigarette.

"Sir?"

"Do you know your history, Captain?" he asked finally. "Ages ago, when the wheel was being invented and I was still in university, I got this idea I'd teach Chinese Imperial history."

He glanced at her, his muscular hands together. "Turns out I had a knack for something else, though."

"I see, sir," she replied, not sounding entirely impressed.

He continued. "Taiwan. When the Ming fell, that's where Guóxìngyé and his armies fled. A few centuries later, and that's where Kuomintang ended up after the civil war ended."

Reaching forward, he tapped his computer and the screen changed. "Taiwan, Northern Yuan, Hangzhou with the Song. Even InterChina survived in Hong Kong for a time. Every time a government falls in China, it holds on for ages and ages in some isolated corner."

"The Imperial Age in China lasted more than two-thousand years. The ancient dynasties went back another two-thousand years. Chinese kingdoms have survived by being…durable…" Huang offered, a little cocky.

"I really do hope I'm not going against the grain of history. The Alliance ruled for sixty-two years. How long will OZ rule?"

"Except OZ doesn't rule, Comrade Major," she pointed out calmly.

Wen held his cigarette in his hand and exhaled. "I suppose not."

The two were interrupted by a voice over the loudspeaker system. "_Commander, this is command-and-control, we've got something here you should see._"

The two exchanged a look. A minute later, and they were inside the C-and-C, with the skeleton crew posted there. A large display monitor showed topographical data from north of them.

"Gobi Gurvansaikhan National Park," Huang identified it.

"It's a huge national park in southern Mongolia, so what?" Wen asked.

"We've gotten some movement from Alliance forces on satellite," an operator explained, highlighting a few positions along border between Mongolia and Xinjiang.

"I thought Bundt's government had a treaty with the Union," Wen pointed out.

"He's supposed to. But even the Eurasians only have a finite number of soldiers. The borders much more secure around Kazakhstan Kyrgyzstan."

"It's not our problem," Huang countered.

"No, I suppose it isn't. The Eurasians beat Nazi Germany, they can handle the likes of Bundt," Wen mumbled. Huang rolled her eyes at the analogy.

"You think these might be the guerillas we've gotten reports about?"

"Well, we heard they were taking the northern route. I suppose this is the middle stage of their 'Long March' through China, back to the warfront," he pointed out, turning away and scratching his head. "Keep monitoring them."

"We're not chasing the guerillas, sir?"

"Captain, look at your lapels."

Frowning, Huang looked at the lapels of her dark blue uniform blazer. It was a set of metal wings, paired with the 8-1 Star, the ancient insignia of the People's Liberation Army.

"They're Bundt's problem. Beijing hasn't ruled on the guerillas, so neither have we," he pointed out as he walked away. "Keep me informed."

"Yes sir, Comrade Squadron Commander."

**V (Eyecatch)**

At midnight, in a popular upscale tourist nightclub in downtown Shanghai, David Ackerson Bishop sat behind a Yamaha upright piano.

Before Dac had been Pilot Officer David Bishop, he'd been David Bishop, above-average student at a private school in Windsor. "Above average" might have been generous, as David excelled at a handful of studies and crashed and burned in almost as many others.

One of his strengths had been, however, music theory: he turned out to have a talent for piano in particular. In Dac's mind, though, piano was a suboptimal instrument for his lifestyle: you might see an OZ officer carry a violin or a guitar or even a cello in its large case, but a piano, an actual piano, was out of the question. Piano also required that you learn how to read sheet music, which Dac could do. Unfortunately, quite a few of the other people he knew who dabbled in music did not necessarily.

Paying attention, Dac took his cue from F/O Mazuri, who was standing at the microphone, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. Dac began playing the rapid staccato. After the drummer began, as did the guitarist, on the other side of the stage. Mazuri began singing with his accent.

_"It's not in the way-y-y that you hold me.  
>It's not in the way you say you care.<br>It's not in the way you've been treat-ing my friends,  
>It's not in the way that you'd stay till the ennnd…"<em>

Dac joined in.

_"It's not in the way you look or the things that you say that you do!  
>Hold the line…love isn't always on time! Ho-whoa-whoa!"<em>

They repeated the chorus before going onto the next verse.

_"It's not in the wooords that you told me, girl.  
>It's not in the way you say you're mine. Oooo-o-oh.<br>It's not in the way that you came back to me,  
>It's not in the way that your love set me freeee…<br>It's not in the way you look or the things that you say that you do!"  
><em>

_"Hold the line…love isn't always on time! Ho-whoa-whoa!  
>Hold the line…love isn't always on time! Ho-whoa-whoa!"<em>

Dac's piano playing got a little lost behind the loud guitar solo, but he didn't really mind. He was actually impressed by Mazuri's singing ability—he couldn't hide the Swahili accent he had whenever he spoke, but he had a gift for hitting the right note in the right octave, and in time.

_"It's not in the wooords that you told me.  
>It's not in the way you say you're mine. Oooo-o-oh.<br>It's not in the way that you came back to meeee,  
>It's not in the way that your love set me freeee…"<em>

_"Hold the line…love isn't always on time!  
>Hold the line…love isn't always on time!"<em>

After repeating the simplistic chorus a few more times, they finished, to the applause of the crowd, largely made of tourists like themselves. Mazuri took an exaggerated bow, then gestured at Dac, who rose from the pinao and bowed likewise. They shook hands with the regular band, as Mazuri slipped the guitarist a bank note.

"Thanks for indulging us," he said as the clapping died down.

"Any time you'd like, Mr. Soldier."

Returning to Dac, he threw an arm over his shoulder as they walked off the stage and the normal band resumed playing. "How much did you pay him?"

"Ten Yuan. About two cheap drinks."

"Hmmmm. For what I'm going to say next, I need to do my best Walker impression," Dac said, as he narrowed his wide blue eyes and made his face overly rigid. "So, _you _paid _them _so we could do _their _job for a few minutes?"

"You sound just like him!" Mazuri said, patting him on the back.

"Really?"

"Maybe. I don't know. Anglo teenagers tend to sound the same to me," he replied, jokingly. "In any case, trust me, it was worth it."

The two sat back down at an empty table. A waiter immediately approached, holding a tray with two drinks.

"They're from them," he said, setting the drinks down and pointing across the club. A pair of attractive women in short, brightly colored cocktail dresses waved at them. One of them looked like she had one parent from India and the other from Western Europe, the other looked Central Asian, with Slavic traits in her hair and eyes.

"See?" Mazuri said, grinning widely, waving back briefly. "Which one do you want?"

This was actually starting to leave Dac's comfort zone a little. "Uh...I sort of have a thing for legs. I'm like the Flight Lieutenant," he said, jokingly.

"Whatever, I'll take the one on the right then," he said, picking up both drinks and handing one to Dac. "And for God sakes, button your blazer, would you? You're not pledging at a fraternity."

He crossed over to the other table and after taking a deep breath, Dac followed him, fixing his blazer.

"My comrade and I wanted to thank you two beautiful ladies for the vodka martinis," he said, sounding what Dac assumed was supposed to be charming. "A. K. Mazuri. And this young man is _Dac_," he said, putting emphasis on it.

The two women giggled at him, while Dac frowned. "David," he told them.

"Mind if we sit down?"

**VI**

It was a few hours past midnight. F/L Walker wasn't entirely certain what time it was. He'd known that about five, when he and his old friend, Michael Wú finished their tour of the historic Central District, and decided to take an early dinner. At some point, one of them had pointed out that the last time they'd met, Walker was too young to drink, so they elected to have a few drinks.

About six hours later, and the two were sluggishly walking through the sidewalks of Connaught Road, leaning on each other to avoid falling down. They laughed at the smallest thing—an attractive woman paired with an ugly man, western tourists looking at maps, other military officers on leave—as though it was the funniest thing imaginable.

"Oh, oh!'" Mr. Wú called out, patting Walker's stomach as he leaned on his shoulders. "We should eat here! Cheap and _delicious_!"

"Mr. Wú…"

"Well, why not?

"Mr. Wú , this is a _Southern Fried Chicken_ franchise," Walker pointed out, unsteady on his own feet.

The two of them stood basking in the neon light of the American fast food franchise. In a few minutes, they were inside, Walker having removed his cape and tunic and folded them in a neat if uneven stack, while the two shared a bucket of crispy fried chicken.

"Just like home, ah?" Mr. Wú asked with a mouthful of chicken.

Walker nodded, as the uniformed night shift watched them with curious expressions. "Exactly like home. That's fast food for you."

The two kept scarfing down food, making up for the dinner that they had missed, until they finished and drunkenly stumbled out of the restaurant.

"Maybe more to drink?"

"No…no…"

"Yes, you're right. We've had…too much to drink."

"Not just that…I don't like really beer. Apparently, that includes Chinese beer."

"So you had six beers earlier tonight because you don't like beer?"

"It was your idea," Walker countered, clutching his uniform and cape to his chest.

"That it was," Mr. Wú admitted. "Why don't we go to your hotel, and rest? My legs are killing _me_!"

They ended up doing just that. They sat in the lounge of the suite paid for by OZ, while Mr. Wú admired the surroundings. "So this is what the inside of the Mandarin Oriental looks like?" he asked, putting his feet up on the glass table. "Very _nice_," he said, stretching out the 'nice'.

"And OZ pays for all of this?"

"That's right. First time I've ever stayed in a hotel on the Order's dime," he said, dropping his uniform on the king size bed in the adjacent room and pulling off his riding boots. He wiggled his toes for a few minutes, before leaving the bedroom, almost walking into a wall. He plopped down in an armchair adjacent to the couch Mr. Wú sat/lay in.

"I should be going," he told him. "Very late for an old man like me."

"Of course. I'll call a taxi." Walker rolled his head around. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"Oh, no coffee, _thank you_."

"Tea?"

"Too late for _tea_."

Walker blinked. "Another drink?"

Mr. Wú took a moment to respond. "Sure. So long as it's not beer."

Walker stood up, stumbled over to the minibar, and rooted around until he produced a large porcelain bottle of baiju, Chinese clear grain alcohol. He awkward poured it into a pair of glasses, spilling a little, before stumbling back to Mr. Wú and handing him the glass.

"_Ganbei_," he told the elderly man.

"Oh, ganbei!" he responded. Both men finished the glasses in a long gulp.

"And with that, I'm going to bed. Good night, Mr. Wú," Walker said, jerkily standing up and wandering over to the bedroom.

"Also, why are you not wearing that shirt I bought _you_?" Mr. Wú asked, sounding stern suddenly. "That's a fifteen yuan shirt, genuine cotton-polyester blend!"

"It's a Hawaiian shirt, Mr. Wú."

"Wear the shirt!"

"No. Good night Mr. Wú," Walker mumbled, before closing the door behind him. He collapsed in his king sized bed, his arms and legs stretched out, and closed his eyes. They felt like they were only closed for a split second before he was woken up by a ringing from his uniform.

Walker climbed out of bed and smacked his lips, then looked through his folded uniform and found his mobile phone. It was actually almost five hours later, in the early morning. He attempted to answer the call, only to find he'd been sent a notice over the network.

_Leave canceled. All officers, return to Jiuquan Cosmodrome. Guerilla forces have begun to move. _He frowned at the message. _The guerillas are a problem now? _

Still, orders were orders. He washed his face in the bathroom sink, hoping he didn't smell too much of alcohol, and began pulling on his uniform. Quietly, he opened the door to the common area of the suite. Mr. Wú was laying on the couch, feet still propped up, fast asleep.

As he gathered everything into his traveling case, he looked at the elderly man he'd known for so long. Clenching his jaw, he put down his luggage and walked to the nearby desk, where he found Mr. Wú's wallet. Unfolding it, he inserted the remainder of Chinese currency he had on him into it, before noticing the hotel stationary pad and pen sitting nearby.

Quickly, he sat down and wrote a short message to Mr. Wú, folding it neatly and putting it inside his wallet with a corner sticking out. He took his luggage, replaced his goggles and folding cap, and left the room.

Several provinces to the northeast, Dac Bishop woke when a shirtless Mazuri kept shaking his shoulder.

"Wake up, man."

"Huh, what?"

"Wake up. Leave's over."

Dac groaned, rolling over in the sofa bed he was sleeping on. "What do you mean _over_? We still have another day."

"Not anymore, pal. Look." He showed Dac his mobile. The other man rolled back over, stared at it, before taking it out of his hand. Mazuri returned to bedroom, and through the open door, Dac recognized the two women from earlier that night, under rumpled bed sheets.

Groggily, Mazuri brought his clothes from the bedroom to the bathroom, and Dac could hear the shower starting. "Hey, what's this about guerillas?" he yelled. He heard a sound from the bedroom and immediately shrank back into the sofa bed, then called for Mazuri in a hushed voice.

"Mazuri! Hey, Mazuri!" When he failed to get a response, he groaned again, climbed out of bed, almost tripping on the new suit he'd bought just the night before. He glanced again into the open bedroom and rolled his eyes. _Yeah, that's outside my comfort zone._

**VII**

Southeast of Shanghai, across the Pacific Ocean, the sun already risen over the small seaside town of Nanjo, and local children were enjoying summer break before classes resumed. A half-dozen children, between the ages of seven and ten, were on the morning run along the coast, preparing for their junior co-ed baseball team. They came to a stop at Hyakuna Beach, where F/O Kaneshiro Kanna was practicing with a pair of red oak tonfa, dressing in loose fitting _kekogi_ over a swimsuit.

"_Ohai-yo!_" the children chirped in chorus. Some were Ryukyuan like herself, while others were from the other isles.

Kanna looked over her shoulder and waved back with one of the tonfas, before resuming her slow, deliberate movements. The children ran up to her through the san as she kept practicing.

"Kanna-_oneesan_, you're back from the army?"

"Yes, just for some leave," she explained. She'd spent the last night with her family in nearby Haebaru, which consisted of a big dinner courtesy of her parents and extended family, and having pictures of her taken in her new uniform for posterity. After all that, she was happy to get some time to herself, frankly. "'Leave' is when the army lets you take a break to visit your family."

"Like holiday?"

"Yes, like holiday," she repeated, not looking at the children.

"Kanna-oneesan's in OZ," the oldest child explained to her contemporaries. "She pilots one of those big mecha, the flying ones, like Takeshi has. Don't you, Kanna-oneesan?"

"That's right," she said, doing a swift sweeping motion with one arm. She blinked. "What do you mean 'like Takeshi has'?"

"Takeshi, who lives in Chinen. He's in Mayachan's class. He has big glasses, and an even bigger model collection."

"Oh." _Of course. _

"He bought them at the toy store near the post office."

"Right," she said, resuming her martial arts.

"Kanna-oneesan," another child said out loud, pointing at the plastic bag she had sitting further up the beach. "Your bag is ringing."

Kanna held both tonfa in one hand and walked over to her bag, fishing out her mobile from among the snacks and bottled water she'd bought earlier. It indicated she'd gotten a message, which she pushed, bringing it up on the screen.

"_Son of a bitch_," she said aloud, in English, before immediately cringing and looking at the small children, who stared at her, wide-eyed. It seemed like none of them knew what she'd said. She forced a friendly smile. "Hey, I have to go, kids. Do any of you want my water and snacks?"

After the kids had cleaned her out of her food and refreshments, Kanna stuck her tonfa under her belt and jogged up the beach and to the main street, in the direction of her apartment in Kaneku. _So much for swimming. I was really looking forward to that. _The weather was great too.

A young woman on a motor scooter passed, wearing a Japanese 'sailor' uniform, neckerchief blowing in the air. "Hey Kannasan! I heard you were back in town!"

"Hi Tomoyochan!" she said, as the scooter slowed down and she approached it. "Aren't you on break?"

"Yes, I just forgot to do laundry," she admitted.

"Probably all those video games. I hope you don't forget your summer reading," Kanna warned.

"Whatever, what are you, my mom?" she asked, speeding up again.

"Don't even joke about that," Kanna countered. "Bye bye!"

She passed the Sashiki Post Office and noticed something odd: a small storefront with an old UESA flag hanging out in the front. Having the red, gold and blue flag of the former-Alliance could mean any number of things, depending on where you were.

Here, it meant someone had a war relic they wanted to sell. Even before 'Daybreak', Alliance flags were deliberately uncommon, unlike national or provincial flags. Kanna stopped and peered at the storefront, confirming her suspicions.

She walked in, hearing the door ring after her.

"Welcome," a middle-aged man in a baseball cap mumbled, not looking up from his magazine.

"'Morning, pops," Kanna countered. Sure enough, it was a toy and model store, packed with merchandise from popular TV shows along with models of actual civilian and military vehicles, from sports cars to attack helicopters. Less concerned with time, she walked around the cramped interior, occasionally lowering her head to fit through a doorway.

Looking around the packed shelves, she took out a cardboard box with a white lid. The manufacturer's label in the corner said 'TAMIYA', which she recognized from her own childhood, even though she hadn't collected models. Dominating the cover was an accurate artistic rendering of a mobile suit, an OZ-07AMS 'Aries', like her own.

_It's probably an Aries-A, going by the face cone, _she said, peering at the details. She read the English print on the box aloud. "Earth-Sphere Alliance mobile suit, OZ-Zero-Seven-AMS Aries, early type." She switched back to Japanese. "One-Hundredth Scale. I guess that's right."

She opened the box and peered at the plastic parts. "Well, they got the colors right. Hey, pops, do you have this model in black?" _This would make a hilarious gift for F/L Walker. _In her mind's eye, she imagined a super-deformed, cartoonish Walker dancing in joy at the prospect of getting a plastic model, while Dac and Mazuri clapped on, equally cartoonish. In her own mind, she was the only one who resembled herself, albeit sexier and with sparkling eyes.

"No," the shopkeeper fired back, interrupting her imagination.

She looked at the sticker on the side. "Two-thousand yen? That's kind of a rip off. Any kid could go to their school's 3D printer after hours, download a file and probably make one for free."

"This is why I don't get many grown-women customers, young lady," he explained, looking up. "Hey, wait a second. I recognize you!"

"…ah hah?" she said, forcing a smile.

"You were in the paper! A few weeks ago! You're the military cadet from Haebaru. You're Kaneshiro, your family made a big deal when you were part of the revolutions last month, you know?" he asked, pointing at a newspaper clipping taped to the glass wall next to him. Sure enough, it was a picture of her from about four years ago, when she'd graduated from Lake Victoria.

"That's an old picture of me," she said, still forcing a smile.

"I'll say. You're a lot bigger now, young lady."

"Yeah, I get that a lot," she countered. She was very tall in general, and by local standards, she was huge. "But I was tall back then too."

She looked at the box in her hand, sticking it back on the shelf. "Well, sorry for bothering you, pops."

The owner seemed interested still. "So, how's life in the military?"

Kanna decided to take this as a way out. She smacked her forehead in an exaggerated manner. "I _knew _I was forgetting something. Well, I'll see you later, pops." _Or not. _

"Hey, wait, do you have a picture of you in uniform? I got some military geeks who'd go crazy over that, it'd be great for advertising."

Right between the cash register and the exit, Kanna used her thumbs to pull open her kekogi, revealing the swimsuit underneath. She grinned apologetically. "Sorry, pops."

The shopkeeper grumbled, turning back to his magazine, as Kanna triumphantly spun around to see a much younger, much shorter boy in a tan Japanese Cub Scout uniform, complete with a scarf. Kanna almost jumped back.

The boy wore big glasses and was probably about eight or nine. "Good morning, miss."

"Uh, good morning," she countered, holding her arms to her side.

"You're First Lieutenant Kaneshiro, aren't you?" he asked, very politely.

_How did he know that? _"Yes, I'm Flight Off-I mean, First Lieutenant Kaneshiro," she admitted, changing the suffix. She quickly closed her kekogi over her swimsuit.

"You probably don't remember, but last year, you spoke at my class, at Sashiki Grade School, about being in the Alliance military," he explained.

She thought about it. She'd spoken at lots of schools. Practically all Speciali had. _Didn't__ Treize gave a commencement speech at Oxford? _"That's…possible." She recalled back to the conversation she had earlier. "You wouldn't be Takeshi, would you?"

The boy's face positively lit up. Behind him, on the sidewalk, a half-dozen children snickered, watching. Kanna put her hands on her hips and tried to grin triumphantly.

"You remembered!"

"Well, you know," she said, tapping her temple with a finger. _Not sure what I meant by that. _

"Kaneshiro-_Chūi_, would you mind if you signed this?" he asked. Behind his back, he produced another big Tamiya boxed model, this one of an Aries in OZ livery.

"Hey, you got one of the black ones!" Kanna pointed out, genuinely impressed. "Hey Pops!"

"He bought it off Amazon Marketplace!" the storekeeper snapped back. "Damn Amazon web site…"

Kanna marveled briefly at the model. It looked virtually identical to her own machine, even with details that distinguished it as an 'Aries-C'. "This is really nice, kiddo, but I don't have a pen or anything," she said.

She looked up to see Takeshi pointed a big black magic marker in her face. She looked at it and took it, yanking the cap off with her teeth.

"'From your buddy in OZ, Kaneshiro Kanna,'" she read out loud as she hastily marked up the cover. "There you go, kiddo."

Takeshi beamed back at her. She could tell she'd clearly made his day, and she was happy for the opportunity. Despite her demeanor, Kanna actually loved children, particularly small ones. It was something she theorized she inherited from her mother, who'd gone on to have a bunch of them herself, in an age of historically low birthrates worldwide. Of course, two-meter-tall women with dark skin and hair dyed bright red sometimes scared young, naïve children, but there seemed to be a lot fewer of those than she remembered growing up.

She patted him once on the head and left the store, quite pleased with herself. The other half-dozen children waved at her from the sidewalk as she ran back to her apartment. Along the way, she asked aloud in English "My God, how do people stand small town life?"

**VIII**

"_Raptor Actual! This is the Third Company! We're in sight of the forward radar site, but we're encountering heavy resistance. We need your firepower!_"

Emi pushed forward on her flight stick. "Roger, Third Company. Raptor One-Two, you're with me. And where the _hell _are those goddamn helicopters?"

Some distance away, a flight of ten Eurasian dual-rotor gunships approached, each as long as a mobile suit, armed with autocannons, missiles and rockets. "_Affirmative, Raptor Actual, this is the Aleksandr Flight! We've just crossed the border into Latvia."_

"Just now?" Emi asked angrily. "What the hell were you waiting?"

"_Sorry about that, Raptor Actual," _she replied.

"Go the hell, Aleksandr Flight!" she snapped back.

_"Affirmative_."

As the helicopters continued to their target, at crater-scored grounds southeast of Daugavpils, Alliance Army soldiers stood in the shadow of the damaged radar installation, scattered across a number earthen trenches and sandbag barricades. A team of four men hastily assembled a large 150 mm guided missile launcher atop a heavy aluminum tripod, before loading the actual missile.

F/O Indira Syed Khan spotted him through the high-powered zoom lenses mounted atop her 90 mm chain rifle, just in time to watch them aim the weapon upwards in her direction.

"We've got AMGM!" she yelled, as she squeezed the trigger, turning the foxhole into a smoking crater in a single burst.

As she predicted, it wasn't the only one. Almost simultaneously, several guided missiles emerged from the trenches, raising up towards the air. The Aries Flight above them deployed chaff and flare as it split apart.

Below them on the ground, vehicles managed the terrain as best they could. "Go! Go! Go!" Kalchenko shouted from inside the cabin of his infantry fighting vehicle, as the nearby turret let loose a burst of autocannon fire. Gunfire from the defenders raked their vehicle, causing him to shiver.

"Tovarisch Kombat! There's too much fire!"

"Bullshit!" he responded, as the turret well before him turned left and right. "I don't care if we drive over the trenches, we need to take the radar site!"

More than a dozen rectangular amphibious IFV_s _rolled across the cratered landscape, directly into the path of Alliance fire. Above them, the mobile suits delivered a deadly barrage.

"_What the hell do we have these ECM pods for?_"

"We're in twenty-meter-tall black mobile suits, I think they can _see _us," Emi countered.

Underground, a section of Alliance marines, distinguished by their unique black berets, formed a human barrier around a pair of ranking officers as they approached the garage motor pool.

The marines secured the garage. "This way, Colonels!" one said, pointing at a nearby armored car. A second later, the wall behind him exploded, slicing him to pieces.

The marines immediately showered the area with fire, killing four Eurasian Army combat engineers. The marines escorted the colonels into the armored car, which immediately crashed through the garage door into the gunfire. All around, Alliance and Eurasian armored vehicles exchanged cannon and missile fire.

"_The colonels are away! Second Marines, move to cover the remainder of the command staff…" _The message was cut off when two Aries landed at the base of the radar tower and unloaded with their chain rifles, causing the whole structure to go up in a fireball.

"_The command staff's been destroyed, but I'm not seeing the VIP transport that already went out!_"

"Cover the river! There's supposed to be a submersible in this area! But remember, our objective is to destroy the whole headquarters!" Emi ordered.

"_We've got a counterattack coming from the town!_"

"Affirmative, One-Two, One-Three, move to intercept! Two-One, cover me! We're going after the Aries!"

"_Acknowledged!_"

Two black mobile suits climbed, turning their heading towards an approaching flight of grey Aries mobile suits. In Operation 'Daybreak' and the May Revolutions, the Aries mobile suit had been closely associated with superior OZ doctrine and training. It was something the Alliance appreciated, and those units still intact were seen as morale-boosters.

Climbing out of the wreckage of his infantry fighting vehicle through what had been the turret wheel, Kalchenko rolled onto the ground immediately behind the wreck. Clutching his assault rifle, he looked up to see fire exchanged between multiple airborne mobile suits. A second later, one cadet grey mobile suit exploded into a fireball, the shockwave knocking the wind out of him soon afterwards.

To the north, a line of OZ-06MS 'Leo' mobile suits, supported by tanks and infantry, fired from the bank of the Daugava River at the airborne attackers. Twisting in her cockpit, Emi spun her machine around laterally and flipped a switch, jettisoning her ECM pod. The aerodynamic tube flung through the air at high speed, striking a Leo in the leg before tearing to pieces. The Alliance mobile suit wobbled before falling down, face-first.

"Keep firing! Keep firing until your guns overheat!" Emi screamed, leveling her machine off and emptying the remainder of her magazine into the riverbank.

**IX**

Having spent almost a year in the semi-arid 'cold' deserts in Xinjiang, Lieutenant Topp had made the adjustment from her childhood home in New Mexico. The weather conditions were the least of her problems.

To say she was discontent was an understatement—she'd enlisted in the Alliance Army Mobile Suit Troops with the expectation of safeguarding peace in Central America, particularly along the shifting borders of the expansive Republic of Texas. Instead, she and her American counterparts had ended up Central Asia immediately before the OZ takeover, hoping for an opportunity to reach the large Alliance enclave in Utah. To do that, though, they had to win in Xinjiang, and OZ and the Chinese were quite adamant on stopping that.

"Maggie" Topp blamed two groups for being her "marooned" in China: OZ, for having destroyed the UESA, and then Colonel-turned-General Bundt, for having kept them here to fight after the fact. It was one thing for the soldiers like Major Nanaki, who jumped on the chance to fight and die for an autonomous Xinjiang. It was another thing for the officers and soldiers from the western hemisphere, who weren't here to fight for Bundt's fiefdom or Xinjiang independence.

"Hey, Dell! I'm stepping out for a bit!"

Master Sergeant Dell, another westerner, was sitting outside Topp's command tent, looking at photographs in a notebook.

"Yo, _Dell_!" she yelled again, buckling her leather shoulder holster and spare magazines in place over a green T-shirt.

Dell finally looked up.

"You know staring at them won't bring you any closer to them," she pointed out.

"Yes, ma'am," Dell mumbled back, before closing the notebook.

"Where you off too?"

Like many officers at Xinjiang, Topp was known for nocturnal habits, since sleeping was a popular way to manage the boredom of days. "Just a walk."

"Be careful."

"Whatever."

Climbing down the hill where her team had set up forward camp, Topp slid down to the dusty basin before checking the compass on her wristband. Orienting herself, she began walking North for a few hundred meters, the sun beginning to rise in the East.

_At least enemy air patrols will be easier to spot. _A lake at the bottom of the basin marked the border to a dense forest. Once she reached the tree cover, Topp took out her aluminum canteen and began refilling it in the lake.

"You were almost late," a voice told her calmly.

"Real sorry about that," she replied sarcastically, screwing the canteen shut before replacing it on her belt. "Welcome to China, by the way. Wherever the hell the border was."

Behind Topp stood the substantially younger ex-Major Sally Po, formerly a staff officer at the Alliance Third Naval Hospital in Japan. While Topp would have done anything, including perhaps walk right up to the Red Army lines with her hands over her head, to get out of China, Po and her comrades—all Chinese expatriates—were desperate to get back in. And more than a few of them were less than thrilled with the new political liberties Beijing was taking concerning men and women from the Alliance.

Po had an old assault rifle slung over her back. Po might have been tall for her age, but Topp thought she could ring the other woman's neck if she had to. "You come here empty handed?"

Po sighed, then began rooting through her backpack. Topp kept a hand over her holster, just in case, until she produced a cylindrical camera lens case, which she tossed at Topp.

Unbuttoning the leather case, Topp removed the bulky camera lens and carefully emptied the contents into the lid: gem-grade diamonds, uncut and unpolished but still extremely valuable.

"These better not be conflict diamonds," Topp said, inspecting the jewels individually.

"They weren't until now."

Topp smirked. "Where'd they come from?"

Po sighed. "If you must know, some sympathetic officers in Eurasian military intelligence passed these on, with the promise that we'd keep fighting Bundt."

"Well, the Russians have always had more diamonds then they know what to do with," she mumbled, before replacing the lens and closing the case. "Now they can spend some on your 'Long March'," she said. She sat down, legs crossed, with the case between her thighs and began looking through her belt, before producing hallowed out Uyghur-English dictionary.

"Check it out," she said, tossing it at Po, who caught it. Inside were a pair of signal transponders.

"The first one will get you Fukang, while evading our patrols. Watch out for OZ or the PLA, no idea what they'll do if they find your band. The second one's for a hidden ammo cache, between Kamaray and the border with Kazakhstan. I'd avoid them too, the Kazakhs are a little too…civilized to be tolerant of guerillas."

"I see."

Topp stood up, brushing the dirt off her pants. The sunrise was visible through the tree cover. "Well, it's been good doing business with you. If you want more, you know how to reach me, _Major_," she said, giving the younger woman and mocking salute, before heading out of the forest. Po watched the other woman leave.

"You know, if you want a way out, Maggie, you could come with us."

"You'd need a lot more diamonds for that," Topp replied, not missing a step.

Po shook her head. "You should start preparing for the future."

Topp ran a hand through her short, combed-back black hair. "Cry me a river, Po. I'm not here for your revolution."

**X**

Sitting inside the largely-completed cockpit, Rani Bishop could see the technological similarity between Gundam-01 and the prototype, Tallgeese.

Looking up, she spotted the overhead flap control lever and variably geometry controls. Beyond them, where the cockpit ceiling should have been, was the 'search eye' system—a set of primary and secondary reflecting mirrors, the digital receptor, and the onboard computer. Immediately behind that was a large cavity, where a modified OZ-12SMS 'Taurus' fusion reactor would be mounted.

Reaching for her left breast pocket, she tapped the clip on the pen/personal assistant she wore. "Unit Zero-One's cockpit placement is unusually low, accommodating the search eye. Apparently, this is true in the other Gundams as well, especially when compared to Tallgeese. Reminder, Gundams are actually smaller than Tallgeese, and very close in height to mass-production mobile suits."

"All observed Gundam pilots are under average height. No pilot has been observed to be taller than one-sixty." She paused. "Scratch that, all Gundam pilots are average height for young adolescent males. No pilot has been reported to be taller than _me_. But the mobile suit itself should comfortably seat an average-sized male of fighting age."

She craned her head around the cockpit, her braids and ponytail bobbing about. "Cockpit layout is otherwise conventional, five congruent screens arranged in a forward field. Beginning BIOS boot up, now."

While Rani flipped switches, Gunther Mieser spoke with Jim, one of his older colleagues, at the Unit 01's feet. They could spot her through the gaps in the superstructure, right up to the cockpit.

"You think it's her?" Jim asked finally.

"No, I doubt it. Too obvious, even for the Foundation. No, it's probably some as simple as someone in Brussels or Luxembourg following the receipts," Mieser countered.

"Should we inform Colonel Zechs?"

"Not yet. He's got other things on his mind. Not until we can tell him something useful."

"Mieser! No offense, but if you're going to spend all day down there, you _better_ not be staring at my butt," Rani chipped it from above, sounding entirely too serious as she pulled apart the Gundam's cockpit computer. Mieser threw his hands into the air in resignation as Jim chuckled.

At the same time on the other side of the Earth, Flight Lieutenant Walker was standing in the middle of Hong Kong International, exhaling into one of his gloves hand and trying to detect how much his breath smelt like alcohol. When he heard voices behind him, he turned around and stood at attention.

"Squadron Commander, sir! Flight Lieutenant Oswald Walker, reporting in!" _Right, guess I'm using my actual name now. _

"Finally, someone else!" Walker only knew the young man addressing him was a Squadron Commander, but beyond that, little else. He was European, possibly German or French, with curly blond hair. He was probably a year younger than Walker, if not more, and a little bit shorter. Walker thought he was almost too handsome to be a mobile suit pilot, with big expressive eyes, a saber hanging from his side and a rose affixed to his double-breasted jacket.

"Walker, step lively. We're leaving, _now_!"

"Of course, Squadron Commander…?"

"Roche Nathaniel. _Lord _Roche Nathaniel," he told him stiffly. He pointed at his briefcase, sitting on the tarmac, which Walker took along with his own.

He glanced at him as he followed. _Must be a Baron. You can tell a lot from an officer based on how they expect to be addressed. Lieutenant Colonel Zechs was a Baron, he's a Count now, but no one would call him "Lord Zechs." Even Count Treize Khushrenada, commander-in-chief of OZ is never called "Lord Treize", except by maybe Lady Une._

He cocked his head. _Come to think of it, women use the address more than men. Lady Soris and Lady Une, after all. That's just a matter of tradition, I suppose. _

Walker stared at the back of Nathaniel's head. _Which makes this guy a Romefeller tool. _

Nathaniel addressed him with his upper-crust accent. "I'll have you know I was tired of waiting for a transport to Xinjiang. As usual, we'll have to do things _my _way."

They came to a halt in front of a medium-size supersonic jet in dark-grey livery. Aside from its somewhat odd color choice—OZ's aircraft used blue and white livery, just as they had during the Alliance—Walker recognized the model. It was a high-speed so-called 'mini carrier', capable of ferrying a as much as ten tonnes of cargo, or more specifically, one mobile suit. It was the smaller sibling of the supersonic transport used by Zechs, but still mounted a medium-caliber autocannon and a dual beam turret. It wasn't as fast as Zechs' Tupolev, but it was capable of VTOL, as opposed to just STOL. Walker shielded his eyes from the light and could see into the main hold, where a single Leo mobile suit rested on a cradle.

"You're a pilot right, Walker?" Nathaniel asked snobbishly.

"Of course, Lord Roche," taking care not to pronounce it like the household pest.

"Good, then you can pilot this."

Walker blinked. "I suppose I could, sir, but wouldn't you be better off with a dedicated pilot?"

"Didn't I mention I was _tired _of waiting?"

The was no use arguing with him. "Of course, sir. It should take us an hour and a half."

Nathaniel stared at Walker, who stood with both briefcases in his hand. "Well, go to it then!"

"Yes sir!" Not sure what to expect, Walker ran up the outer stairway into the empty flight deck, immediately setting both briefcases aside and buckling himself into the pilot's seat. He donned a headset and began radioing the tower.

"Hong Kong Tower, this is OZ-Zero-Zero-Eight-Eight-One, requesting departure permission heading east." He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Nathaniel had boarded the aircraft. The last thing he wanted was to be the only crew and passenger.

ATC cleared him, and he looked at the instrumentation laid out before him. It was _not _like a mobile suit.

"I'll have us moving in just a minute, sir." _Not like a Gundam is going to appear or something. _He began to carefully increase the throttle and disarmed his parking break, and the aircraft lurched forward once. Immediately he slammed his right foot down, causing the rudder and the whole aircraft to turn towards the tarmac.

_See. No problem. Just like those tiny two-person training aircraft in Lake Victoria. Once you get it in position, autopilot can handle the rest. _Walker carefully steered the aircraft across the tarmac and to his designated runway, before coming to a halt again.

"Hong Kong Tower, this is OZ-Zero-Zero-Eight-Eight-One, requesting permission to takeoff."

"Flight Lieutenant, if you'd _please__, _we are in a war here," Nathaniel called from the back of the flight deck.

Barely holding back his scowl, Walker waited for clearance from ATC before setting the throttle to full power racing down the runway, before ascending over the blue waters around Hong Kong. Walker took one last look at the city in the distance, wondering if he'd return.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note:<strong>_

_Yeah, I ended up adding a bit to the end belatedly. Another _The Last Outpost _character appears! I know I keep saying this, but I do plan to wrap up this whole China business very, very soon (in the next chapter), since any day now, Heero should be waking up from his coma. Let me know what you like!_


	17. Tears and Diamonds

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 17 **– Tears and Diamonds ****

Flight Lieutenant Ogasawara Emi stood among the ruins of the southern half of city of Daugavpils, once the second largest in Republic of Latvia. The pincer on the Alliance Headquarters had destroyed the city south of the Daugava, and much of it to the north. Soaked in sweat and chaffing against her composite vest, she climbed along the side of her mobile suit and made the jump large government building southeast of Unity Square. A recently dead Alliance soldier lay on the other side, a few hours from rotting.

Stretching her legs out, she clamored up the side of the government building and emerged at the top, her machine pistol hanging by its sling. She dove onto the flat roof, bouncing against her composite vest before crawling on her arms and legs across to the other side.

Emi made a mental map of her surroundings: St. Alexander Nevsky Orthodox Church behind her, Unity Square in front of her, a block of hotels and department stores to her right. Looking for a pair of binoculars, she surveyed the area—the gunfire and artillery and stopped, and it was largely silent except for the occasional shout and armored vehicles cutting through the debris. The Eurasian Red Army was actually leaving Daugava now. They'd done what they set out to do: destroy the Alliance Headquarters.

_Minsk made good on its threat to cross the border. Now, every extra minute they spend in Latvian territory, an officer is recalled to Moscow, yelled at, and canned. _She scanned the horizon with her binoculars, and when she felt more confident, she sat kneeling on one leg, still looking through the binoculars.

_The Red Army took heavy losses. The Alliance had every square meter of this town zeroed for artillery, every block covered by snipers. _She glanced back across the building's flat white roof, to the corpse of an Alliance Marine sniper, still clutching his marksman's rifle, lying in a pool of dried blood. His head was carved out by several flechettes from an anti-personnel missile that had exploded over him.

_A long time ago, a different Red Army fought the bloodiest non-nuclear war in human history, against an enemy that killed twenty-five million people in a country of two-hundred million. But that was centuries ago, and I don't think the Eurasian Union, or any country, in this day and age is prepared to fight a war like that. Nor is Romefeller. _

She stared at his cratered head, his death grip on the rifle's stock. On her hands and knees she crawled over the corpse and put her head very close to his. She could see through his scope: he'd died with a Eurasian soldier in his sights, an officer.

Emi frowned, taking her own binoculars and focusing on the dead officer in the shadow of the Daugavpil Prosecutor's Office. The familiar face, with a hole in his head, through the helmet, just over his left eye. The captain's insignia his collars. A red, white and gold Guards badge pinned to his combat armor.

"Headquarters, this is Raptor Actual. I found Kalachenko."

**II**

In an autonomous western region of China, a leader promoting disarmament was assassinated. He had advocate independence, and shared his plans with the military establishment crucial to that goal. However, he was killed by that very establishment, the Alliance's Western Chinese Military District. The ringleader, Colonel Thomas Bundt, rejected the plea for pacifism and made the case for the necessity of military strength in the pursuit of autonomy. The military and civilian rebels had debated on the topic, before the military resolved to end the matter by killing the civilian leader.

F/L Walker watched Xinjiang in the distance from the cockpit of Roche Nathaniel's mini-carrier aircraft, adjusting the autopilot to lower their altitude.

He looked over his shoulder to the back of the flight deck, where Squadron Commander Nathaniel was sheathing and unsheathing periodically.

"When making our final descent, Lord Roche."

"Good."

"May I speak freely, sir?"

"If you need to."

"You were recalled from Outer Space for this, weren't you?"

Lord Roche raised an eyebrow. "How did you know?"

"I saw your custom Leo when I boarded. Obviously, you're not mounting the vernier booster unit, but you still have the necessary hardware."

To his surprise, the younger man laughed, putting a hand to his head. "Of course, you're an engineer. You'd know this sort of thing."

There was a beep from the navigation console, and they both turned to it. "We're coming up on the Gobi Nature Preserve."

"That's enough radio silence. Get ahold of Huang and update her as of our position."

"Affirmative. Jiuquan Air Base, this is Flight Lieutenant Walker, aboard small carrier, tail number OZ-Zero-Zero-Eight-Eight-One. Please respond."

As Walker repeated the message, Roche stood behind the empty copilot's seat, looking over the desolate landscape. "So this is a nature preserve? Leave it to the Mongolians…"

_Elitist plutocrat. _Walker was barely able to resist rolling his eyes when he finally got a response. "_Flight Lieutenant Walker, its Huang. Thank you for getting here so fast. What do you see?_"

Walker squinted, wishing he was wearing a helmet-mounted display. "Looks like distant troop movement, but my mental mapping isn't perfect. Has the Alliance crossed the border?"

"_Not yet, according to Ulan Bator, but we're not ruling out anything. Radio chatter mentioned Xinjiang guerillas hitting ammo dumps and supply caches on the Alliance side of the border._"

He glanced over at Roche, who seemed to be ignoring the conversation mostly. "Do you think the Mongolians would be careless enough to back guerillas in Xinjiang?"

"_One bad thing about the Union is that the head doesn't keep regular hours with the arms and legs,_" another voice added, Squadron Commander Wen.

"Your orders, sir?"

"_Until the rest of the units return, we're mounting a handful of small raids that'll hopefully convince the Alliance to choose their targets. Maybe even back off. Deploy our esteemed Baron at the flank, we've got attack aircraft standing by to cover his escape._"

"I appreciate the gesture, Wen, but I doubt that'll be necessary," Roche replied, playing with his curly blond hair.

Walker rolled his eyes that time, as Roche was facing away. "_Target any enemy installations you spot out there too. We'll try and keep you updated, otherwise, stay quiet. Good hunting._"

The channel was closed. "I forgot how strange impromptu or hasty missions can be. Setting heading to three-three-zero. Sir, you may want to get ready."

"Finally." Roche was about to leave when he spotted something and pointed to it through the cockpit windows. "What's that?"

"Good eye, sir. Looks like a concrete bunker." Walker turned to a different bank of switches. "Powering up the turret and ECM. I'll go in at low altitude, and deploy you behind the enemy lines."

"That sounds more like it, Lieutenant." Roche left the flight deck for the cargo hold.

Tilting the aircraft, Walker increased the throttle to just under full power and began tracking on the handful of bunkers reaching out from the mountainside. He switched between different spectrums and paused in infrared.

He programmed a line of across multiple bunkers. "It's not empty after all."

"_What was that, Lieutenant?" _Roche asked over his headset.

"I'm picking up one body on sight, moving between the bunkers." He enhanced the image as much as he could. "A woman, Alliance soldier, only carrying small arms. Beginning ground attack."

"_Negative, Lieutenant. Do not fire._"

_Excuse me?_ He took his hand off the button on the firing controls. "Acknowledged sir, but…why?"

"_Your orders are to ferry me to the battlefield. I don't shoot women running on the ground with beam cannons on my aircraft._"

_You must be joking. _"…Affirmative, sir. Aborting attack run, setting heading to three-five-five."

It took only minutes, at a much more manageable speed, to come within ten twelve kilometers of the battlefront.

"There they are, sir. We're steady, speed four-fifty, altitude six-hundred."

Roche nodded. "Good, and not a moment too soon. I'll deploy immediately, open the rear doors in thirty."

Walker nodded as the squadron commander left the flight deck. "I'll lay down covering fire."

"That won't be necessary, Walker. I want to enjoy this." In the main hold, Roche slid down the ladder and into his mobile suit's cockpit, lying flat on its back. The modified OZ-06MS 'Leo', painted in deep red livery with gold trim and with a complex coat-of-arms painted in detail on the shield. After strapping himself in, he closed the hatch, just as the cargo hold door opened.

"_Sir, standing by to deploy._"

Grinning widely, he pulled the release lever in his cockpit, allowing his machine to slide back on its cradle and out the rear hold. He extended his machines' arm and used the higher air resistance of his shield to turn himself over. Within second, the enemy battle line was visible.

"Oh, I'll bet you see me now," he chuckled. In the unlikely event he was benefitting from the mothership's electronic countermeasures, he put himself into a slowing dive as he began aiming his beam rifle. With careful, precise bursts, he was able to pepper the Alliance formation with beam fire, forcing the enemy mobile suits to break in formation.

Watching his altimeter rapidly close, at just under one-hundred he pulled his triple-parachute, righted his machine, and fired his rear rockets, slowing his descent even as enemy fire tore his parachute apart. He landed on the desert ground with a jolt that kicked up sand all around him, obscuring his machine.

"This is Roche Nathaniel, I've made contact with the enemy!"

**III**

Flight Officer Cage sat inside the armored cockpit of his marine mobile suit, the OZ-08MMS 'Cancer' currently in stealth mode: he was moving at ahead slow, had shut down extra systems, including climate control, and adjusting his sonar system. Even running silent like this, it was possible that he would be spotted, but he did have the advantage of being much smaller than his target.

He was in the vicinity of the mouth of the Daugava River, ran through Russia, Belarus, and Latvia before emptying into the Baltic Sea at the city of Riga. The area was highly sensitive, to put it mildly. _The Latvians may have only have a costal defense navy, but they still have their share of anti-submarine helicopters and ships. Add to that whatever ships the Alliance had moored at Riga, and there are plenty of things down here that could kill me._

He wiped some of the condensation from his goggles and leather helmet. _By now, the Belarusian Front might be over, but every time one flashpoint ends, another two seem to appear. I'm starting to understand what the brass that warned about OZ becoming a worldwide peacekeeping force. It was one thing to chase down the Alliance wherever it still existed, but if the consequence of 'Daybreak' is that their remnants cause wars to breakout on every continent, OZ can't deal with that. We're an elite force, not a big one._

He frowned. _And then there's Outer Space._

His thoughts were interrupted when his sonar marked a larger incoming object with a ping. Looking at the signature, he saw it resembled his target: it was at least 130 meters long, about eight times the length of his machine when cruising, and sounded like it had four screws propelling it. As more data came in, he found it matched the shape of an OZ submarine carrier, and that it was close.

"Target confirmed, bearing zero-four-eight, range twenty-seven hundred, speed, eleven knots," he whispered.

In the officers' cabin, towards the rear of the submersible carrier, two Alliance colonels sat in the comfortable conditions, looking exhausted and beaten. Their olive army uniforms were scuffed up and dirty, their riding boots caked with concrete dust and dirt.

The colonel glanced at his colleague. "And what if Thörnqvist can't come through? Even if we keep representation at Riga, we can't go back. Frankly, I'm shocked we got out. OZ was insane to attack us at Daugavpils, I can't even fathom how they convinced the Red Army to help them take a city the world won't let them keep."

The vessel's executive officer, wearing a clean Alliance navy winter uniform that largely resembled its army counterpart, entered the room after knocking. Despite being summer, on cool, climate-controlled submarines, the winter daily uniform was a common feature.

"Sirs," he said, saluting sharply.

"Has there been any response from the Baltic Fleet? Or the Arctic?" one colonel asked anxiously.

"Negative, sir. We're still waiting. But the captain wanted to tell you that the OZ carrier group moved off, to the Gulf of Bothnia."

"Probably to take on supplies in Sweden."

The colonel fell back into his seat, sighing deeply. "Thank you, Ensign."

"Sir." He let himself out to return to the bridge. The two colonels continued their discussion.

"The Zodiacs are unpredictable more than anything else. You know what day it is?"

The other man blinked. "The first of July?"

"I was scheduled to lead my unit in 'Steady Arrow', a war game led by the Sixth Special Airborne in the North European Air Army today." He let his head fall back. "The world's changed so much in the last six weeks, we might as well be in another dimension."

The other colonel put his hands together on his knees. "Agreed."

In the ship's bridge, the submarine commander, a middle-age senior captain wearing a white summer navy tunic, calmly sat near the sonar station. The XO returned, nodding at his commanding officer.

"How are the colonels?"

"About the same, sir."

"Of course."

"Your orders, sir?"

He checked his wristwatch. "Stand down from silent running in thirty minutes, maintain ahead slow."

"Aye-aye skipper."

The XO took his place near the front of the bridge, watching the information on the display bridge. Like any military submersible, the vessel had no windows and relied purely on instrumentation and sensors for navigation. The decision left the ship far less vulnerable to attack, but not entirely.

"Lieutenant, I think I'm getting movement, heading three-zero-three, range two-thousand."

The captain raised an eyebrow as the lieutenant climbed out of his seat. "Sonar signature?"

"It's small…smaller than a mobile suit. Looks like a torpedo!"

"Bastard got the drop on us, stand down from silent running! Ahead flank, evasive maneuvers!" the captain ordered, standing up.

The sonar operator continued. "Traveling in a straight line. Making…forty knots?"

"That's too slow to be a torpedo," the lieutenant mumbled.

"Sonar, we need you to match that sound signature precisely!"

"Aye-aye sir!" Her fingers rapidly punched in commands via the keyboard at her station.

"Deploy decoys in ten seconds, then five seconds!"

"Aye-aye sir!" a weapons officer announced, relaying the orders by telephone.

An officer sitting next to the sonar operator spoke. "Target is slowing down and changing heading by…fifty degrees. Has slowed down to thirty knots."

"Sonar!"

The sonar operator looked back. "It sounds…like…a mobile suit! OZ-Zero-Nine-MS! It's a Pisces!"

"You're sure?"

"Both screws match, sir!"

"If that's a mobile suit, why the hell hasn't it fired yet?" the XO asked. "What is he trying? Comms, are you getting anything?"

The communications officer nodded from his station. "Sir, I'm getting periodic radio bursts once every three seconds, but I can't get a bearing…"

"I'd rather not wait to find out," the CO responded. "Flood all tubes, set target to the mobile suit."

The weapons officer pressed four red switches in a row. "Tubes one through four are flooding…done!"

"Fire all tubes!"

"Aye aye, skipper! Torpedoes away, fifteen seconds to impact!"

"Target is closing, speed rising to thirty eight knots."

The XO shook his head. "This isn't right, what the hell is he trying?"

"Ten seconds to impact!"

The XO's eyes raced across the bridge. "Captain, we need to return to silent running, we're the loudest thing in the sea now."

"I know, Doug, but at least we're one of fastest too."

"Impact in…five…four…three…two…"

There was an audible rumbling through the ship, as all four torpedoes exploded in close proximity of the small target. The XO glanced at a cup of coffee set on a nearby console, watching it rapidly shake and slide over to the edge, where it stopped.

"Target's gone silent sir," the sonar operator announced.

The captain sighed in relief. "Just to be safe, fire decoys in ten seconds, then ahead slow."

"Aye aye, Skipper."

Smiling, the CO turned to the XO, and the two men stared at each other before they began laughing, softly at first, then loudly enough to echo through the bridge. Several of the crew began to join in, including the sonar operator before her eyes grew as wide as saucers and she slammed her hands against her console.

"New contact!" she screamed. "Bearing zero-zero-five! It's close!"

The other sonar officer looked at his own console. "Confirmed, heading right to us. Forty knots, it's already at nine-hundred!"

"Ahead flank!" both the XO and CO shouted simultaneously.

"It must have been a decoy! Goddamn it!"

"Deploying decoys!" the weapons officer shouted.

"Target closing, range eight-hundred!"

"What the hell did we just blow out of the water?" the CO demanded.

Inside his machine, which despite being more submarine than mobile suit, still featured the same standard OZ cockpit, Cage checked his weapons systems on small screen to the let of the center panel. All of his onboard weapons, of which the Cancer carried quite a few, were displayed in rectangular boxes. Two of them were highlighted in flashing red: two specially-built decoy torpedoes that carried a rather small explosive charge but could accurately replicate the sound of one of the two screws on an OZ-09MMS 'Pisces'. His targeting computer on the opposite side of the panel showed that he'd fired both of the decoy torpedoes about 2000 meters past where he believed the carrier to be—while it was running silent, it's exact position was difficult to track, even for him. Both decoys could be piloted, as a pair, via their high-powered radios.

_Under water, tracking radio transmissions can be difficult. _He was rapidly closing in on the much larger vessel, which had gone from silent to extremely loud in the last few minutes. He armed his 350-mm supercaviating torpedoes—large, powerful, fast Eurasian weapons that were too big to be fired by a Pisces, though he could only fire a pair at once. Once he was confident their own acoustic homing systems would do the job, he squeezed the trigger on his right flight stick, firing a pair. The Kyrgyz-made torpedoes were among the fastest on Earth, capable of hitting up to 200 knots or more easily, and worked by creating a gas bubble that enveloped them, reducing their drag substantially.

Cage pulled away sharply, anxious to avoid the explosion he soon expected. Just as he did, there was a very loud rumble and his Cancer physically shook in the water, almost causing him to lose control.

Inside the carrier, things were worse. The two torpedoes had struck the starboard pressure hull, tearing the section apart and throwing the three Cancer mobile suits carried within to actually break free of their cradles, smashing against the insides but not exploding their ammunition. Red lights flashed in the dim bridge.

"Damage report!" the CO screamed, as the floor tilted further and further.

"Flooding in all starboard compartments! Flooding reported in center compartments three and four!"

"No sign of the enemy! Sonar's shot to hell!" the sonar operator shouted, bleeding from her forehead.

"William!" the CO shouted, grasping the XO by the lapels of his uniform.

"I know sir," he yelled back, trying to be heard over the sound of air escaping from numerous pipes. "I'll do it, sir!"

Trying not to lose his step, the XO ran out of the bridge and into the main corridor, making his way past damage control crews. Stepping into the next compartment, he found himself submerged past his ankles. He grabbed a passing officer, who was soaked.

"Find the colonels, and begin flooding the port docking bay! And prep the mobile suits to launch!"

"Sir, we're taking on too much water, we'll never recover if we flood the docking bay!"

The whole ship lurched a few more degrees, and both men fell against the nearby wall. The submarine was listing badly.

"The ship is _lost_!" the XO shouted back. "Do it!"

The officer nodded and forced his way into the hatch. Water was pouring in from an adjacent compartment, and by now, the water was past his knees. He was finally able to make his way to the officers' cabins, directly underneath the large helipad. The two colonels were already dressed in life preservers.

"What happened? How many are there?" one colonel asked.

"We think just one."

"Just _one_?"

"We need to get you out of this ship immediately, we have no way to defend ourselves at these ranges! This way!"

He led the two colonels through the flooding ship, towards the intersection. The captain's voice boomed over the PA system.

"_Attention all crew. The ship has suffered unrecoverable flooding. All crew stand by to abandon the ship. Please make your way to the escape capsules as soon as possible. I repeat, please, make your way.._"

"This way! We're getting you out in our mobile suits!" the XO shouted, as he grabbed the two colonels. By this point, they were practically climbing up the tilted ship into the port pressure hull, which housed half the mobile suits the ship might have carried.

The XO saw the officer he'd met earlier standing by the control station. "Sir, both machines are prepped and ready to launch!"

"Good. You," he said, pointing at one of the colonels. "You're going out first. You, take the second."

The colonels both nodded and ran to the hatches. In the underwater dock, an intact blue Pisces was sitting affixed to its deployment cradle, as the chamber irregularly flooded.

"_Just get in the machines now, we don't have time to do this by the book!_" the XO barked over the speakers. At the control station, he turned to the other officer. "As soon as they're in, open the main doors, normal flooding's taking way too long."

"Yes sir!" He watched on the monitors as both colonels climbed into the underside cockpits of the Pisces and Cancer, then overrode the system, causing the main doors to open. The whole chamber was flooded in a second, causing the ship to rock again, this time towards the level. Both machines began to spin their propeller blades, when something obscured the cameras.

"What the hell's that? Did something hit the cameras?"

Inside the Pisces' cockpit, the colonel looked around, confused. "Where's that light coming from?"

Just over a hundred meters above and in front of the port pressure hull, Cage's machine had left cruise mode and entered mobile suit mode, allowing it to aim its two arms independently of the hull, as well as use its main camera and aim its floodlights in the direction of the sinking submarine. Unlike submarines, marine mobile suits featured cameras, just like the older Leo that preceded them. To use them required powerful floodlights in all but the most shallow of water.

"You're probably wondering why I only fired one salvo," he said to himself, as he squeezed the trigger. He fired another lone 350-mm torpedo from his port arm, watching it travel in a straight line into the open dock. It exploded inside, pulverizing everyone in the pressure hull instantaneously, including the XO, under a few tonnes of water pressure. The pressure hull began to rip apart from the inside, flooding the rest of the carrier.

_Was that a Pisces? Was there a Speciali aboard that ship? _Cage returned to cruise mode as the carrier sank swiftly, pockets of air escaping from the broken hull. The bridge had already flooded completely, leaving the captain and crew floating in the dim light.

_Guess we won't know until Alex and the deep sea recovery team arrive. _He pulled a lever, returning to cruising mode.

**IV**

Like most military aircraft, Nathaniel's aircraft mounted a high-powered camera inside an armored turret on the underside. Through it, Walker watched, somewhat impressed, as the young baron's modified Leo fought off five Alliance mobile suits, armed only with a beam rifle.

_There might be something to him after all. _The communications console beeped, and he switched the MFD over to his com systems. The message was sound only.

"_Walker, where are you?_" It was Wen.

"Over the battlefront, provided recon for Squadron Commander Nathaniel." _Sort of. _

"_Fascinating. Forget him, and make best speed to zero-six-one-nine. We've got an Alliance supply cache that's lighting up the airwaves like a rock concert._"

"Three buildings, no defenses, I spotted them earlier. Are you sure, sir?"

"_Those are direct orders from me. They must be using it as a communications hub, and that means it needs to be silenced. If you're worried about upsetting the young master, I'll take the heat._"

_Nathaniel never ordered me to stay here, I guess. _"Affirmative sir, making best speed to zero-six-one-nine." He opened up the throttle and changed his heading, leaving Roche Nathaniel to fight his own battle from behind the cover of the rocky outcroppings in the Gobi.

In a few short minutes he was over the supply base once more, which his instrumentation confirmed was transmitting on multiple frequencies. Walker armed the beam turret and autocannon, and with a little careful flying, was about to turn the carrier into a reasonably effective gunship. Flying in a wide circle, he checked his aim before squeezing the trigger.

"Engaging supply base." The autocannon and beam turret spat out bursts of charged particles and ballistic shells across the desert, punching holes in the cement bunker and turning patches of sand into glass. He put enough terajoules of energy and kilograms of ammunition onto the ten-by-ten meter concrete structure to destroy multiple mobile suits, and was treated to an explosion that knocked off much of the roof. _Too small to be an ammo blast. Too big to be fuel though. So what was that? _

Walker activated the motion tracking, looking for any survivors among the smoking wreck. He eyed the adjacent paved clearing, empty except for a few old 4x4 jeeps.

"This is Walker aboard Nathaniel's carrier. I'm going to get a closer look, please acknowledge." He got no response. _Must still be observing radio silence. Looks like the transmissions are still going on in this area. _

He manage to land the VTOL carrier onto the clearing, knocking a jeep away with his forward landing gear. Looking through the armory, he found some of what he needed: a short body armor vest and a long-barreled submachine gun with a motion detection suite mounted on its rails. He unbuttoned his double-breasted tunic and removed his cap.

"I've heard of getting out of your mobile suit to do recon in dense terrain, but getting out of an aircraft to do recon underground? I'm sure this won't end poorly." He pulled his goggles over his eyes and unfolded the weapon's display. "Figures he doesn't have any helmets."

Armed and armored, he descended down the extended ladder immediately behind the forward landing gear, before brandishing his carbine. He could hear the camera housing nearby, its servomotors whirling softly as the camera scanned for movement and returned direction data back to a computer display unfolded from his weapon. The only thing it detected was the periodic loose cement block toppling over and his own movement. Walker folded the ladder back into the aircraft, wiping his forehead. "Just a reminder this is a desert, huh?"

A quick investigation revealed the inside of the bunker to be devoid of hostiles and only home what had been drums of fuel, some of which had been destroyed. Of greater interest was a giant hole left in the bunker floor. _This doesn't look like the result of beam or cannon fire. It looks like some sort of high-explosive device. _

Walker knelt over the hole briefly, feeling safe for the moment. He surveyed the remains under him. _What was this, a military-grade petrol generator? But it couldn't have exploded like that, it was just full of kerosene. So what did?_

Craning his head, he listed and made out the distinct sound of a functioning petrol-powered generator. He tossed a lit flare into the floor beneath him and leapt down, scanning the room with his submachine gun. The much weaker motion detector mounted on theweapon pointed to an active generator ten meters away, at the other end of the bunker, on the same level. Standing in front of it, Walker traced the thick power lines along the walls and down a hallway that descended deep underneath the bunker.

_One way to find where this goes. _Holding the submachine gun in one hand, he flipped the heavy main switch over the front of the generator, switching it off. He immediately took cover behind the generator's body, aiming his submachine gun down the hallway and waiting for something.

Walker didn't wait long. A burst of fire sprayed across the generator, and he threw himself behind it before blinding firing back. Another loud burst came back in his direction, causing him to shrink behind his cover. He hated infantry combat.

_Sounds like assault rifle fire. Maybe five-five-six? _He fired another burst back, confident he wasn't hitting anything: he was much better at understanding infantry weapons than firing them.

After a few seconds, Walker peered around the corner of the generator, then threw himself against the wall next to the corridor's entrance. Remaining careful, he got in position to fire again, when he recognized a familiar wound: that of a rifle grenade, probably 25 mm caliber high-explosive air bursting. He had to fight the urge to throw himself back around the corner as he saw the flash of the grenade—he flew past his shoulder, and he dove forward into the corridor, covering his head and neck with his weapon and arms. Even as it exploded, he forced himself back onto his feet, doing the only thing he could manage: he charged down the corridor, firing a single burst that emptied out the remainder of his rifle. He loaded his lone spare magazine and continued firing until he came to the end of the corridor, finding it empty.

Walker glanced at his rifle before shaking his head. _See, this is why I wouldn't have made a good infantryman. Sixty rounds and all I did was make sixty new holes in the wall. _

He checked the motion detector once more, which suggested there was only one other threat in the area, in the adjacent room. Switching off the screen, he carefully aimed his submachine gun so he could use the darkened screen as an improvised mirror. When no one shot the rifle back, he set it on the ground, switched off the safety of his semi-automatic pistol and threw himself the room, behind the cover of a column.

The narrow but long room seemed filled with boxes and large, obsolete communications equipment, including immobile servers and routing hardware. He scanned his surroundings, pistol in hand, before spotting a dim light away from him. He visualized the room in his mind's eye, before swinging around the column, a thick piece of equipment serving as cover.

"Drop it! I'm covering the only exit!" he lied, shouting in the direction of the light. On the thick communications cabinet, he noticed another assault rifle, a common American carbine with an under slung grenade launcher used in the Alliance. Reaching carefully with one hand, he slowly pulled it towards him, before feeling its weight. _Empty. _

He stared at the assault rifle for a few seconds, when he got an idea. In the silence, he took the rifle in one hand and pressed the magazine release against the edge of a crate, loudly ejecting the magazine. Immediately, multiple shots aimed at him came through the crate in front of him. One struck him in his composite vest over the right shoulder—had he not thrown himself on the floor, it might have caught him in the neck. He scrambled among the crates and equipment around the corner, loaded pistol drawn, just in time to spot the silhouette of a woman with a pistol in in an office.

"Toss your firearm and put your hands on your head!" he shouted from his position on the ground.

"I can't do that, Zodiac."

**V**

The pilot of Gundam-04, Quatre Raberba Winner, sat before small personal computer, looking through a folder of digital photographs. The colonial guerilla commando was looking through aerial photographs of the Alliance military cosmodromes now in OZ's control—in effect, all of the military space ports that were still operational on Earth. They knew of a dozen—Lake Baikal, Baikonur, Kennedy, Jiuquan, et cetera—though there were probably a few smaller secret locations, deep in so-called "international" waters.

_The secret locations are no good. If we wanted to return to Outer Space, we couldn't count on a secret seaborne site. And civilian spaceports wouldn't have enough launch vehicles capable of moving the Gundams. _

He frowned. _I guess there's also the fact that any spaceport we commandeered would be destroyed in the process. _

A aerial photograph of Singapore Spaceport came up, located on North Bintan Island a few kilometers off the coast of Singapore. "Stanford Raffles Cosmodrome," he read out loud. "General information: Stanford Raffles is a former-civilian space center leased to the Alliance military in After Colony One-Five-Five, for ninety-nine years."

He tapped the keyboard. "The Singaporean military wasn't sufficient to sustain a military spaceport. So OZ controls it."

A new photograph revealed a number of HLV_s_: OZ-designed heavy-lift vehicles, three-stage transport spacecraft. Each could carry a number of mobile suits and additional equipment, all in fixed storage, out to space stations like _Barge_.

_The Alliance used these to deploy mobile suits into outer space. But they're slow compared to conventional spacecraft._ As a class of vehicles, HLV_s _used nuclear gas-core engines to produce a tremendous amount of thrust over long periods of time, meaning a very effective, reliable Earth escape vehicle but a large, slow-moving target.

_So getting into Outer Space won't be easy, no matter what. But it may be our only hope to leave Earth now. _

He tapped the page down key, changing the photograph to an OZ mobile suit division in formation outside the Pentagon, home to the ancient American Defense Ministry, and the prize of the Federal States. OZ had broken the Alliance Army there, and awarded the prize to the regional power they most favored—the Federal States of America. A dozen black OZ-07AMS 'Aries' stood, chain rifles raised, as Treize Khushrenada shook hands with the President of the Federal States, old enough to be his grandmother.

**VI (Eyecatch)**

"How about we get acquainted, Zodiac?" the Alliance officer asked, staring at Walker down the sights of her well-worn sidearm. "Maggie Topp, Lieutenant, Able Company, Twenty-Second Ground Division, formerly of the West Chinese Military District, now the Army of the Republic of Xinjiang."

Having risen to his feet, Walker stared back at her over his polished semi-automatic pistol. "Oswald Walker, Flight Lieutenant, Ninth Company, OZ Seventh Airborne."

"That would make you a…captain, right?" she asked, actually looking thoughtful. Walker didn't respond, so she continued. "So, now that we who a little more about each other, would you care to know what I've been doing down here when these radios?"

He said nothing, slowly making his way across the maze of equipment and crates, step by step. He stared at her: she was a few years older than him, probably a graduate of a less military academy somewhere in North America. She wore Alliance battle dress trousers, with a green T-shirt and a leather gun vest. She had straight, pulled-back black hair and sharp, intelligent eyes that reminded him of his own more than a little. She looked very confident, given the situation.

Topp grinned at him, holding her pistol—the slide was open, indicating the magazine was empty. On her belt were two additional magazines, along with a utility pouch and a cylindrical leather container, and at her feet was an empty one.

"If you're done staring at my feet, what don't you look at the monitor?" she asked.

Walker carefully relocated himself so he could see the orange monitor while keeping his eyes trained on Topp.

"What do you see?"

The monitor showed outdoor video feed: watching it over Topp's shoulder, he could see that it was probably somewhere in the Gobi area, taken from a camera mounted within a concrete structure like the one he was in. Visible approaching the camera was an infantry squad, a dozen soldiers in matching mountain camouflage making their way over the rough terrain towards the building.

"A infantry squad somewhere near the border, approaching one of these bases."

"Eurasian Border Patrol," she said, correcting him. "Like you, but not crazy enough to recon an Alliance supply building with just one man."

"Just following orders."

"Right, I've heard that before. Thanks for trying to drop the bunker on my head. You know what else is different between you and them?"

"Better gear?"

Topp laughed, still keeping her empty pistol trained on him. She didn't seem to be wanting for confidence. "Besides that. They didn't have an aircraft to preemptively set off the RDX booby trap set up at the entrance of that ammo cache for any nosy enemy patrols."

Walker blinked once.

"Take a deep whiff of that, Walker. Smell familiar? What do you think set off that explosion earlier? Not some cannon fire, I promise."

Walker sniffed quickly. The air did smell vaguely of high-explosive, though he was hardly a bomb-sniffing machine. "Why?"

"It's not normal, but this isn't a normal situation, is it?" she asked him. "Between you and the Chinese, we'll never regain air superiority. But you can't blow up every supply dump, barracks and monitoring station in northwest China."

"So you hide your communications lines in plain sight."

Topp shrugged. "Anything that'll keep the People's Air Force from raining bombs down on them."

"Very inventive."

"Thanks. I bet you'd agree that it'd be a shame if a dozen Mongolians blew themselves up crossing into a war zone they had no business in."

"Yes," he admitted, still aiming at her. His body was starting to grow tired from the prolonged tension. He was beginning to see where she was going. "So, can you disarm the trap?"

"This isn't exactly Space Forces, Walker. That trap is attached to a motion sensor that that you'd have to practically be standing on top of to remotely disarm. Funny, huh?"

"Not really."

"If only _someone _could warn them they're about to be turned into separate complex molecules, you know?" Topp asked suggestively.

Walker resisted the urge to sigh. "And what's stopping you from doing it right now?"

"Besides not wanting to lose a bargaining chip? I don't know Eurasian frequencies off the top of my head, and they're running silent. Blame your Chinese comrades for that." Topp gave him a stiff grin. "I bet you do though."

"And what about myself?" he said, gripping his sidearm a little tighter.

"You know which one they're at? Or do you plan to make a house call to the Eurasian Border Guard with approximate directions?"

"Fine then, what are your terms?"

"Let me out, and I'll tell you the location of that cache, and even use my radio."

"And if I don't agree?"

"I'm in no mood to get into a gunfight with an unloaded gun. So then I sit here, you take me prisoner, and platoon of eighteen-year-old Mongolian conscripts get vaporized by a few tons of explosives under their feet. Or we all walk away, among the living."

"You realize I can't just let you walk away, right? Both in good consciousness, and for my own safety," he pointed out.

"I do. And I have no intention of parting with my piece."

He thought about it for a second. "Could you warn them now, and take my word that I'd let you leave?"

Topp gave a hearty laugh for a few seconds, before turning back to him, dead serious. "No, I don't think so. I've been doing too many favors recently," she told him, stretching her left arm. "Too bad for you, you didn't try blowing me up a month or two ago, I might be asking you to help _me_. But I'm done doing being nice."

She looked at her thumb and began wiping some of the blood for her forehead. "I don't want to rush you, Flight Lieutenant, but…" she said, raising her left arm and turning her wristwatch towards him.

Walker stared at Topp, then at her sidearm with the empty box magazine and open action.

"Well?"

His jaw was starting to hurt from clenching it tightly. Behind him, the video relay of the Eurasian Border Patrol carefully making their way down the loading dock. Topp stared back at him, into his dark, teal eyes, becoming less convinced.

After a few more seconds, he responded. He slowly lowered his handgun, about ten degrees. _Finally…_

Then he squeezed the trigger, managing to put a bullet into her ankle. Having reached for her ammunition pouch, Topp froze in pain before falling over onto her feet, losing her grip. From the floor she saw her pistol and reached out for it, a spare magazine in her other hand. She could hear the sound of boots rapidly approaching.

Sure enough, Walker appeared in her field of vision, kicking the pistol away and keeping his own trained on her. He looked visibly shaken.

"You _son of a bitch! _You _shot me! _What the hell is wrong with all you _fucking Zodiacs_?" She howled in pain again, dropping the magazine and pressing both hands against her ankles. "I offered you _everything. _And you _shot me_!"

Walker looked like he was about to say something. Instead, he stood aside and literally pushed her across the brushed metal floor, in the opposite direction of her sidearm. Glancing at her once more, he went over to the computer controls.

"You _bastard_!"

"There's no listed location for this video feed. And you're not going to tell me the location of this installation, are you?" he asked, pointing with one hand at the screen.

"Go _fuck _yourself, Flight Lieutenant Oswald Walker!" she screamed out, before trying to spit at him from the floor.

"I understand completely." He closed his eyes for a second, blocking out Topp's writhing and screaming. He was close enough to screen to make out details he couldn't have previously. Blinking rapidly, he tried to mentally reproduce the digital satellite photograph overlay he'd seen inside Roche's aircraft, focusing on the marked locations of Alliance installations and nearby topographical features: chasms, mountains, cliff faces, anything. He opened his eyes and stared at the video footage, as the Eurasians made their way down the ramp.

_That pair of ridges, the short horizon. That narrows it down a little. _He stared at the display. _The height of the sun in the sky. _He glanced at his watch. _The camera's facing north-by-northwest. And…is that a reservoir? _

He stared at the monitor, his eyes wide, before snatching his long range radio and tuning to the right frequency. "This is OZ's Fourth Airborne, to the Eurasian Border Troops at the Alliance base in vicinity of…Santanhuxiang! Pull out immediately! To Border Troops at Santanhuxiang, pull out! The concrete bunker is an Alliance ammo dump, and rigged to explode! Please acknowledge!"

He kept repeating the message while staring at the Border Troops as they precariously made their way into the structure, until the speakers crackled back and a voice spoke rapidly in Russian, apparently at him. A second later, the same thing seem to happen at the other bunker, as the platoon of troops halted in their steps. Walker wondered if the video had frozen when they finally but slowly backed in reverse the way they'd came. Someone who knew English had interpreted his warning and relayed it.

Walker set is radio down and exhaled deeply. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a profusely bleeding Topp crawling over to her handgun. Holding his own in both hands, he aimed at her.

"Stand down!"

"Fuck you!" she said, reaching for handgun, a magazine in her other bloody hand.

Walker squeezed the trigger again, this time putting a bullet in her back. Topp shuddered abruptly, before relaxing and rolling over, bleeding from this new wound. Walker stared at her for a few seconds, before slowly walking up to her, his pistol's slide open.

Very carefully, he reached forward and felt Topp's neck for a pulse. To his left, he heard a door slide open and he immediately reaimed his empty gun. It was Roche.

Walker heaved a deep sigh. "Sir, you really ought to announce yourself."

"'Been running round a lot, have you?" Roche asked, flashing him a devious grin. "I radioed you a few times, figures you left the aircraft."

"My apologies, but…well, orders, from Commander Wen."

"Of course, Commander Wen," Roche mouthed. For a moment, his tone of voice gave Walker the expectation that he was going to utter something offensive, but he didn't. "You have my sympathies."

"How was the battle?"

"You could hardly call it that," he replied, crossing the maze towards him. "The relics of the Xinjiang Army are no match for my red Leo. They're barely a match for those destroyers the Eurasians field now, those turret-less tanks."

He ran a hand along the dust on the crates. "Looks like you had a better fight," he told Walker, as the F/L ejected the spent box magazine, letting it fall to the floor before finding another one.

"You could say that, sir," he said, before holstering his sidearm. "She should have had me. Far better shot. Only got away for a fluke, I think."

Roche's expression changed abruptly, as Walker shook his head. "A second magazine for that assault rifle, and I'd probably be dead in a pool, over there," he said, pointing.

The younger man didn't respond.

"Something the matter, my Lord?"

Roche looked at Topp, in a clump on the ground, bleeding from the leg and from just underneath the right shoulder blade, then back at Walker, with a look of disgust. He went on to make some angry, indignant accusations about improper behavior on Walker's part, blood spray across his body armor. In his head, Walker found himself tuning the younger man's prim voice out as he ran his eyes across the display monitor, his mind on how he was going to fill out the paperwork.

**VII**

Flight Officers Tycho Nichol and Trant Clark stood in a hallway overlooking one of _Barge_'s many hangar bays, as an armored trans-orbital shuttle was dragged by loading claws, then lowered onto the hangar floor as the thick, armored doors closed behind it.

"Returning atmosphere," a crew chief announced. "All clear."

"You know what we need? Magnetic fields, like in the movies. Three hundred years of space travel, and we still need to pump air in and out of every hangar," Clark pointed out.

Nichol grinned. "Not like a magnetic field's going to stop a beam cannon."

The two men joined the procession of junior officers following a pair of lieutenant colonels into the large hangar. The hangar staff, some still wearing normal suits, setup the stairway by the shuttle and filed into a neat line, just as pressurized door opened with a hiss.

The two lieutenant colonels—one, a tall, statuesque woman in sharp, maroon dress tunic while the other, a young man in a more humble hunter green service tunic of the same rank—stood at attention, joined by the other officers. Through the doorway emerged Colonel Treize Khushrenada, in full regalia, his royal blue dress uniform shining in the hangar lights. He was followed by a single large honor guard, a large man with impeccable features, seemingly unarmed except for his saber.

The two colonels saluted immediately, being the closest to the stairway. "Your Excellency."

Treize grinned, clearly enjoying himself. "Lady Soris, it's been too long. I should thank you for this wonderful opportunity."

Soris Armonia extended a gloved hand in a delicate manner very uncharacteristic of her, which Treize took politely. "Thank you, your Excellency."

As if to spare her, Treize turned to the other lieutenant colonel. "Colonel Andrews."

The blond man quickly shook Treize's extended hand. "Yes, your Excellency."

"It's good to finally meet you. Your father was and is one of the finest officers I've had to privilege to serve under."

The younger Lieutenant Colonel Andrews had a North Irish accent, which had the effect of making him sound more modest. "Well, I hope it wasn't just on his recommendation that I'd become Luxembourg Press Secretary."

As Treize assured him that nepotism was not a factor, Soris stood there, grinning at them. Treize kept her in the corner of his eye: besides making her instantly memorable, the makeup she wore—mascara, blush, lipstick, all in quantities very unusual for a woman in OZ—made it more difficult for most to perceive her own emotional responses, as though they were hidden behind paint. The two continued for a few minutes, before Andrews dismissed the other officers and the three left the hangar.

"As I was saying, I'm grateful for any opportunity to leave Luxembourg nowadays. Not to sound ungrateful, but Lady Une has me on a…"

"A short leash?" Soris offered, grinning slyly.

"As I said, I don't want to sound ungrateful. And the Lady will be quite preoccupied herself from now on, taking over Colonel Andrew's position in Outer Space."

"I'll be glad to return to Earth, I assure you sir."

"Shame you won't be joining us. Outer Space's where the real battles are," Soris countered, with confidence that Andrews couldn't match.

"So I've heard. What I would have given to be at the battle of _Barge_," Treize said, smiling back. "Were you there, Andrews?"

"I was not sir," he admitted. "Though as you know, Lady Soris was, along with some of the junior officers you just met…Nichol, the younger Clark, and others."

"Fine men, all of them," Treize said, nodding. "I wish I could get a better look at the installation, but as it stands, I cannot spend much time from Earth."

"Of course, your Excellency. We'll get you fully briefed, than transfer over to the _Over the Rainbow_."

**VIII**

Wen, in full uniform, sat at the end of the circular table inside the executive conference room at Jiuquan, the blinds closed around him. At the opposite end of the table, a shimmering faux-3D hologram of Lieutenant Colonel Une stood, her hands on the table. A basic understanding of body language suggested the more relaxed Wen enjoyed a comfortable advantage over the tenser, standing Lady Une, though Wen still felt on edge.

"_So we caught a run of incredible luck: either the guerillas or misinformation from Khabarovsk forced Bundt to divert to the north._"

"I'm still wondering which. As usual, the Eurasians took him seriously." He'd been tapping a finger against the tabletop, then stopped. "Understand, Colonel, a full withdrawal across the border means we've secured the military objective we sought without further military losses. If you were expecting to break the back of the Alliance in Xinjiang, even if Bundt were to die tomorrow, that wouldn't happen any time soon." Wen cocked his head at the hologram. "No, I suspect we'll be dealing with Bundt for some time now."

"_And our concessions_?" Une asked.

"If you could call them that. A POW exchange, continued _de facto _independence for Xinjiang. Let the Alliance deal with the partisans themselves. A twenty four-hour-a-day guerilla war might do what we couldn't with periodic border defense."

"_So the Xinjiang border was far more porous than either we or Beijing suspected_."

"One-point-six million square kilometers is a lot of territory to cover. The Long March is over, to be replaced by the Bundt's anti-partisan campaign. I said I'd get Bundt out of Central China, and I did. But no one said anything about dragging OZ's Asian divisions into a new war. And we might not be so fortunate this time."

"_I suppose you did, Wen._"

"What I want to know is what exactly Bundt thought was coming. There's no way he'd miss an entire Airborne division crossing into Xinjiang, which is what it'd take, minimum, to establish a foothold. And he's known about the guerillas for weeks now." Wen leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. "So what exactly did he keep that sensor network up for? Something small that a whole army corps couldn't take down?"

Une just stared back at him. "_As you said, Wen, it's no longer your problem._"

"I suppose not. Good evening, ma'am." He stood up and saluted, as the hologram flickered and vanished. Wen sat back down at the table, unbuttoning his collar and sighing, staring up at the five-pointed red star that decorated the ceiling.

_Bundt was never a great tactician, but he's managed to make up for it with numbers and caution. Then he stopped being cautious, and nearly found himself at war with both the largest and most populous countries in the world. But are the Eurasians really that good at playing it this close to the chest?_

He glanced out the door, down the dimly lit hallway. "When Huang's done snooping around, I'll have to ask her to send flowers to the Long March."

**IX**

"It's quite a ship," Treize pronounced from the old fashion command chair in the middle of the command center. He relaxed, leaning on his left arm, as he surveyed space from the bridge of the OZSS _Over the Rainbow_, hull designation EBC-31, one thousand meters long and with a breadth of three thousand meters.

"Don't be fooled, your Excellency," Soris warned smugly, behind him. "Elegance and size aside, it's a poor warship. There's a reason why there are only two _Peacemillion-_class warships still active, and only one in service, isn't there, Mr. Clark?"

F/O Clark nodded obediently from the line of duty consoles in front of the command chair. "Yes, ma'am. The design is nearly a century old, and it shows. At three thousand meters, it doesn't really matter how many beam cannon turrets you mount on it, at this speed you wouldn't do much better than if it were a stationary space fortress. _Which _it lacks the armor for."

"And what of the other one?"

"The lead ship of the class was retired and sold by the Alliance to private interests years ago, sir. As it stands, even a substantially up-gunned battleship of this class would have a hard time with three or four _Ganymede_-class cruisers, much less the _Over the Rainbow _or the _Peacemillion._"

"There's something to be said about beauty," Treize said with a smile.

Soris shrugged, smiling with her hands apart and her eyes closed. "The _Peacemillion-_class was the last of the great military exploration ships. There was a practical need for a vessel of its size, and a military profile gave it an additional use. Shame it could do neither well."

"Sirs, we're coming up on the Ex-Alliance taskforce, heading zero-one-twelve, range one-three-two-nine-zero-zero."

"Just as predicted, they're avoiding _Barge_'s firing zone while preparing for a raid. Uncreative, but tactically sound," Treize observed, touching his chin. "I hoped for more initiative on their part."

"They may still have it," Soris warned.

On Earth, surface navies generally consisted of the following types of ships, in order from most to least massive: the aircraft carrier and battleship, the missile cruiser, the destroyer, and the frigate. The same system was adopted when the United Earth Sphere Alliance created the first naval fleets in Outer Space, supplanting and defeating the old informal patrol fleets among the colonies. In respecting the larger scales of space combat, extraterrestrial warships were typically twice as long as their Earth counterparts, and constructed in separate stages. The exception were ships like the _Peacemilllion_-class, the juggernauts of the last century, herculean efforts that took decades to complete, relics of a bygone era of exploration as well as warfare.

Among the most popular and widely deployed warships in the Alliance Navy were the relatively modern _Titan _and _Ganymede-_class cruisers, which OZ had to contend with in the vicinity of _Barge_. Unlike older, increasingly outdated cruisers and destroyers if the Alliance, designs at minimum thirty years old like the _Los Angeles-_class, or relics like the _Over the Rainbow_, they were named after extraterrestrial bodies, in this case, moons of Saturn and Jupiter respectively. Both classes were products of the same Alliance design bureau, and could be mistaken for one another by the uninformed.

The targeting computer offered schematics for both: long, purpose-designed ships with tall command towers and large thrusters in the back. The smaller _Titan_-class, 310 meters in length and a beam of 72 meters at its widest, had a single pair of thruster nozzles housed in an open armored sheath. The long, narrow bow housed four missile tubes, two on either side, and the midsection featured a pair of lateral, forward-facing heavy beam turrets, with matching symmetry. The cosmetically similar _Ganymede_-class, 462 meters long with a beam of 151 meters, two of the same engine banks in the place of one, eight missile tubes and four heavy beam turrets, two laterally, one above the bridge and one on the underside. Both cruisers featured very similar launch catapults and docking rings.

"We confirm a total of eight ships: two _Ganymede-_class and three _Titan-_class, along with three picket ships. The picket ships are rapidly withdrawing from combat. Orders, your Excellency?"

Treize glanced at the video imagery of the unarmed picket ships. "Let them run. We're here for the cruisers, not some unarmed supply ships. Hail the flagship."

"Hailing the _Callisto._"

On the main monitor, the image of the outer space and the fleet was replaced by video-conferencing.

"_Well, well, well, if it isn't Treize Khushrenada. Having fun playing admiral now?_"

Treize matched the smile with his own. "Good afternoon, Admiral Kuznetsov. We haven't met like this in some time, have we?"

Grinning mischievous from the other ship was Counter Admiral Yuri Kuznetsov, a rugged, amiable, and relaxed division commander in the Alliance Space Forces. He was very much unlike the typical Eurasian military officer, with unkempt black hair and a long scarf he wore over his navy uniform. Treize knew he was in his late thirties or early forties. "I don't think we've ever met like this, Treize. I always said you were dangerous, looks like I was right."

Treize glanced at the sensor readouts briefly. "The times haven't been kind to your fleet."

"No, I suppose not," Kuznetsov replied, seemingly unconcerned.

Facing five of the most modern cruisers in the Alliance arsenal was the outdated behemoth OZSS _Over the Rainbow_ and three _Berlin-_class escort carriers, each just over 240 meters long. Between them, they could ferry a decent number of mobile suits, but were each sparingly armed with just a pair of double-barreled beam turrets.

_I wonder if Kuznetsov suspects those carriers are mostly empty_, Soris thought, standing by the command chair attentively. She glanced at Treize out of the corner of her eye. _We have as much firepower as half that taskforce, and maybe half as many mobile suits. Let's see if Treize's bluff is called. _

"_How are you enjoying that historical artifact?_" Kuznetsov asked, starting to grin.

"I find it charming in its own way. But I wouldn't want to take it into battle. And you?"

Kuznetsov stopped grinning, instead looking thoughtful. "I won't lie, I'm pretty fond of these ships and the men aboard them."

"Could I convince you to talk this out instead?"

More grinning. "_What's the matter, Treize? This doesn't sound like you at all._"

Treize rose from the command chair and put a hand to his chest, bowing slightly. In the bridge of the EASFS _Callisto_, the uniformed crew at the duty consoles around Kuznetsov stared in surprise. "_I do not believe this to be your last battle. There's a great deal more work to be done in Outer Space, and I could use your help, Yuri Mikhailovich._"

While Treize kept his head bowed, Kuznetsov gave an annoyed sighed and made a gesture with his hand. The communications officer cut the audio.

"Navigation?"

"Yes sir!"

"We could still outrun the _Over the Rainbow _and its escort carriers along on the same vector?"

Four navigation officers occupied their station, with one standing up behind the others. She looked at her comrades and nodded. "Affirmative, Admiral. At our current velocity, we'd have another five-hundred seventy seconds. Any closer, and they'd be able to put us in range eventually while we burned retrograde."

"That's a big window of escape," he said, running a hand through his thick hair. He grunted and gestured for audio to resume, then crossed his arms.

"All right, Treize. There's no harm in talking, so long as you didn't bring Une along." He raised an eyebrow. "You haven't brought Une, have you?"

"_The Lady is preoccupied on Earth._"

"Good. Tell your ships to kill their acceleration, with the exception of one of your escort carriers, the _Danzig. _Bring it within eighty clicks of our taskforce, and I'll meet you on board. And you'd better make this worth my time, Treize."

"_I promise I will._"

Kuznetsov gestured for the channel to be closed then pulled on his scarf with both hands. "All ships, burn retrograde until relative velocity is zero. The _Callisto _is towing one shuttle, it's about time we used it."

The executive officer, a bald African with a bushy mustache, exhaled stiffly. "You're sure of this, Admiral?"

"Plenty of harm can come from talking with Treize Khushrenada. And if the _San Francisco _and _Karachi _were here, I'd blow that museum piece out of the stars. But they're not, are they?"

Silence from the bridge crew.

"I didn't think so."

**X**

As usual, Dr. Eva Cebotari sat in library at what was still the Darlian Estate in New Yokohama. She'd largely claimed the library as her own, as she found neither Mareen or Relena Darlian cared for reading in the library, possibly even before she'd arrived.

"You know, Parsons, it doesn't count as being right if you're dealing with a sure thing," she mumbled very softly to herself.

Her notebook computer was opened to a streaming news site managed by TAES, the Telecom Agency of the Eurasian Union. The Russian-speaking anchors were nearly manic—the Alliance in Latvia had sued for peace, and a guardian _coup d'état_ had removed or killed the internationalist Alliance leaders, leaving only the nationalist, pro-Latvian senior officers. The Belarusian Front was disbanded, while Red Army licked its wounds and enjoyed its victory.

Simultaneously, the Alliance suffered a rout in west China, briefly diverting towards Mongolia. They had no choice but to sue for peace, since even Colonel Bundt wasn't mad enough to attempt to link up with Riga, five thousand kilometers away. It was good news for OZ, in any case. Though Eva, along with more and more officers in the military commissariat, didn't care about the war with the Alliance, though perhaps they should have.

With the exception of Gundam-01, no further Gundams had been located, nor any of their pilots. In some minds, this was even worse than the situation pre-Mirny, when the Gundams ran around like destructive, headless chickens.

It might have been worse, if the Romefeller Foundation or anyone but a handful of officers in OZ found out the Military Commissariat's dirty secret: that they had actually located all five Gundam pilots, at one time or another, prior to Mirny. On her own computer, Eva had irrefutable audio evidence of two Gundam pilots in old Yokohama, no more than a few kilometers away, a few weeks ago. In her case, it had been coincidental: they'd been discovered in informal collusion with Relena Darlian. Photographic evidence backed it up.

_The Military Commissariat isn't even a formal intelligence agency. We're in charge of monitoring and investigating recruitment. But there is no intelligence-gathering department, so someone needs to tell the General Staff _something. _And that left us. _Eva wasn't really pleased thinking about it. _They give us orders, and no sensible way to carry them out_.

She minimized the browser, switching to a set of photographs, including one of Relena meeting with the pilots of Gundam-01 and Gundam-02 at school. Eva couldn't decide if it was a brilliant cover—OZ wouldn't dare send her, much less a counterterrorism team, into a private school in Japan—or an incredibly stupid one.

She crossed her arms under her chest. _If killing a single Gundam pilot, or even two, were enough, Operation M might not have lasted a week. It's not. Killing them without their Gundams is useless. Even now, if we could confirm the Unit 01's pilot, along with the destruction of the Gundam, what would it mean? _

Eva reached for her laptop again, opening a new audio file that she listened through her hidden earphones.

_Now Zechs is rebuilding a Gundam, and it seems even more likely there's a pilot waiting for it somewhere on Earth. What should have been a victory…_

She frowned. _So is the only way to 'win' in this scenario, to destroy the Gundams together, as a unit? _

Granted, it wasn't her responsibility. It was just the overriding objective of the military forces on Earth to neutralize the Gundams, the one exception being what was left of the Alliance.

_If so, the Alliance and OZ have been handling this the wrong way. Then again, the Foundation has finally given its go-ahead for Khushrenada's colonial initiative. Perhaps we're finally learning._

Cocking her head, she listened to the recorded audio, taken by a bug planted on Relena Peacecraft, while reading the transcript. It'd been taken at St. Gabriel International, Relena's school in Japan. It'd been left to sit among hundreds of hours of recorded audio, and only reviewed a few days later by Office Cadet Parsons. And when he did hear it, he didn't believe it. _I don't blame Parsons for not believing it, but the Foundation might not be so forgiving. _

"_Your Gundam killed my father._"

"_Is that so?_"

"_You should have killed me instead._"

"_Perhaps._"

"_Well then, kill me right here and now._"

"_Wouldn't you like to avenge your father before that?_"

The conversation in question carried on for another minute, with a second adolescent male speaking shortly after. _The whole thing is almost too stupid to believe. I would have done the same thing. The whole theory that she was speaking to Unit 01's pilot is that one line, "Your Gundam killed my father."_

It was the end of the conversation. _"Relena Darlian is dead. Don't show up in front of me again._"

Relena wasn't literally dead, of course, she was two floors below her. The conversation did conveniently explain at least some of her bizarre behavior. But that's where it ended: Relena Darlian and the Gundams were two entirely different cases, and everyone hoped it would stay that way. The Foundation wasn't aware of a possible Relena Darlian-Gundam pilot connection, because aside from Eva, Parsons, and "Lyra," who had bugged Relena in the first place, no one in OZ knew who'd about Relena's little excursions.

_Unless Relena has accomplices in OZ, of course. _

It was getting difficult. Relena was supposed to be _their _bargaining chip against Zechs if the worse had happened, but she'd rapidly graduated to an actual problem in her own right.

_Right now, even if she joined the Gundam clique, what could she do? Nothing. _

Eva frowned very gently. _Unless we made her an enemy, and gave her that power. It's my decision to make after all._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_Another long one. New scene courtesy of _The Glory of Losers. _Xinjiang and Belarus (for the protagonists) are officially wrapped up, as promised. I'm actually working on a Battle of _Barge_ scene that will be inserted somewhere in Chapter 9, for the sake of clarity (my apologies—I will post a notice of it being updated, as it will be referenced in the future.) On the other hand, there are some things from the manga I will not be adopting—for example, Une's Gundam briefing being much less dramatic (and featuring 100% less cherry pickers!). Really, more than anything I like what the manga has done with Relena and, an when it has filled in large gaps, but actually changes aren't as enjoyable to me._

_Lieutenant Colonel Andrews, while North Irish, is modeled after a younger version of _Canadian_ actor Victor Garber (best known for his portrayal of, yup, Thomas Andrews in the film _Titanic). _He's the ranking officer Heero watches giving a speech right after coming out of his coma, when Trowa explains the situation. _

_Next chapter will feature more G-Boys and company (I keep saying that, don't I?), as well as preparations for the move to outer space. Stay tuned!_


	18. Abandoned Warriors

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 18 **– Abandoned Warriors ****

_Morning of July 8__th__, AC 195, Federal City of Moscow_

Inside the Eurasian Defense Ministry, a complex of multiple large, neoclassical buildings sitting in the middle of the metropolis on the banks Moskva River, eight officers, including four general officers and a single, elderly Marshal of the Eurasian Union, sat at a circular table.

One of the generals, his olive service uniform featuring sky-blue air force insignia, shuffled the papers in front of him then spoke in Russian. "What's next on the agenda? Right, this. Comrades, as to the matter of the first of July, in the Southeastern Military District…"

"You mean the Border Guard troops in the Gobi, sir?"

"Exactly. It's made the evening news, and Chairwoman Nambar recommended two OZ mobile suit officers be recognized along with the five already pegged from the Latvian Campaign."

"Of course," he said, shuffling more papers. "I see no problem with that. OZ likes to know when they're appreciated, it seems. All in favor of giving our recommendation to the Presidium?"

The other seven officers raised their hands, as did he.

"Motion carried unanimously. Moving on to the issue of colonial repatriation from Outer Space…"

**II**

In a four-passenger cabin in a supersonic military passenger liner, Flight Lieutenant Oswald Walker was hunched over his unfolding tray table, filling out a light blue sheet of paper.

Sitting opposite of him, A. K. Mazuri watched him carefully and deliberately fill in the small squares and bubbles across the computer form. The flight officer tried to make out what he was reading from his own seat, before clearing his throat.

"Hey, F/L."

"Yes?" Walker asked, looking up.

"What are you filling out?"

Walker sighed, putting the pen down on his tray. "Case report. On the last day of the Jiuquan Campaign, I shot an Alliance junior lieutenant twice and killed her. On foot."

"I heard about that, with that Foundation hotshot kid."

"That's the one. The next time I see him will be too soon."

Mazuri smiled, before glancing at his armrest. "You want a beer, sir?"

Walker shook his head, smiling now. "You know, Ajay, I don't want to tell you what to do, but…you seem to like the drink."

The other man chuckled. "Please, when it's free, I'll drink anything."

"I'll take a sparkling water."

Mazuri pressed a key on his armrest. "Can we get a beer and a sparkling water?" He put his hands together and looked back at Walker, who returned to filling out his form. "Was this your first time, sir?"

"You mean shooting someone? No, it can't have been. I can't remember the last time I killed someone outside of my machine, but I do remember my first time."

_I could do without hearing that story, _Mazuri thought, nodding. "Well, looks like you did the right thing. I heard you saved a dozen Mongolian border troops."

"I really do hope so. Apparently, by the time we land in Moscow, the Eurasians should have ruled on the incident."

"I hope they appreciate what you did."

"Me too," Walker told him, filling out another line.

The door to the small cabin opened, and a flight attendant with a tray gave them a bottle of club soda and a beer. Walker thanked the flight attendant right before he left.

"It's not that often you kill someone whose name, rank, and unit you knew," he told Mazuri. Next to him, F/O Kaneshiro rolled over in what for her was a slightly-too-small seat, then continued snoozing. Across from her, Pilot Officer Bishop slept too, large headphones over his ears.

Mazuri watched him. "What was his name?" he asked, sounding more sincere.

"Her name was Junior Lieutenant Margaret Topp, of the Alliance Army Mobile Suit Troops," he told him. "And apparently, she was interested in photography."

"Photography?"

In his mind's eye, Walker recalled the basement of the Alliance bunker in the Gobi Nature Preserve, after OZ Internal Army troops had secured it. In traditional OZ fashion, they treated it not as a warzone but a forensics sight.

Squadron Commander Wen visited personally, having heard about the whole incident. As a noncommissioned officer who was a forensics specialist captured a 3D rendering of the area alongside conventional photography, as another noncom surrounded Topp's body with caution tape.

Wen walked up to Walker, who was sitting in a corner, sweating and exhausted, still wearing his vest. He was fumbling with a cylindrical leather container.

_"Well, son, you remembered your basic training: you don't point your gun at someone unless you plan to kill them. That doesn't look like a so-called 'nonlethal' shot, does it?"_

_"It wasn't, Squadron Commander," _he mumbled back, popping the container open. Carefully, he tilted the container to let the contents fall into his hand: a single, old-fashion camera lens.

Walker scratched his face with a fingernail. "When I killed her, she had a high-powered telephoto lens on her."

Mazuri stared at him. "That's...a little strange."

"I thought so too."

**III**

Major Nanaki was commander of the Xinjiang National Army's 21st Ground Mobile Suit Division's Able Company, colloquially called the Xinjiang Republican Guard. He was having dinner with his wife and brother-in-law, both doctors with the local Health Ministry. Nanaki had always liked family dinners in his spacious but austere country homes, where he could revel in the mediocrity of his cook's meals and the dreariness of the conversations, compared to the rest of his life.

In spite of his unusual name, Nanaki considered himself one of Xinjiang's native sons. In the early 'Nineties as a young captain, he had passed off handsome assignments in Eurasia and North Africa to remain in the Far West.

Then Thomas Bundt came, a straight-talking, practically-minded senior officer from the North American General Staff and with combat experience both in the Americas and Western Europe. _We didn't realize it at the time, but Bundt was something of a blessing. He only knew as much about Xinjiang as he needed to, and trusted his subordinates to fill in the gaps. And, to his credit, he had good subordinates, myself included. _

Bundt stayed on during the coup d'état launched by OZ. The original commander of the West Chinese Military District was in conference in Beijing, killed when the Zodiacs stormed the Alliance Headquarters. And when the Ürümqi Interim Government declared independent, Bundt gave them the firepower they needed to repulse the Chinese PLA.

_So, here's the causality dilemma: Ürümqi wants independence from the government in Beijing, and see the end of the Alliance as an opportunity to do so. But to do so, it must repulse the local government's forces, and needs the West Chinese District's forces to do just that. After all, the Alliance overwhelmed the PLA decades ago, they could do it again. But the Interim Government hated the idea of submitting to the military, so they called for disarmament once the PLA withdrew. So to secure autonomy, the military had to intervene—just as to obtain autonomy, the military had to be mobilized. _

Nanaki sighed. Like many, he found himself swept by the away in the torrent of history, trying to grapple with all that had happened.

"So what do you think?" his brother-in-law asked.

Nanaki was a large man, with a powerful chin and cold, collected eyes. He had broad shoulders and he knew looked good in Alliance drab olive, so he wore his uniform to dinner frequently, even at home. His black visor cap sat on the table near his fork, a polished Alliance cockade pinned to it.

"I think we'd rather deal with the guerrillas than OZ," he replied calmly. "The guerrillas may become part of daily life, but OZ…you can't say the same about OZ."

He set down his spoon and stared at his reflection in the soup. "I hope General Bundt feels the same way."

"As do I."

"Don't bother him at dinner," his wife chided her brother.

"I don't mind," Nanaki assured him.

While Nanaki enjoyed a warm meal, another ex-Alliance Major, Sally Po sat among the other Long March Rebels, scrapping the sides of a cold can of roast mutton and onions. It was a slow night, something she appreciated. At the other end of the rebel camp, she could hear the familiar sound of a commandeered cargo truck coming to a halt and the more recently-acquired payload being offloaded.

Another Long March guerrilla unslung his rifle and set it down near Po. Nodding briefly at her, he circled to the opposite side of the ammo dump and took out a _taqiyah_ from the Alliance field tunic he wore and knelt down for his evening prayer. Facing roughly west, he and a few other guerrillas completed their_ Isha'a_ prayer.

The guerrilla returned to his rifle and sat down near Po, who tossed him an unopened can, which he caught.

"What's on the menu?"

"Mutton and onions again. At least it's _halal_."

The guerrilla smirked and pulled back on the can's tab while Po tossed her own can and looked at the self-propelled MRL artillery that dotted the base. It wasn't perfect, but they made do with what they could deprive the Alliance of. _At least Topp's data came through. _

"Po! Over here!"

A People's Liberation Army defector sat by desk near an antiaircraft position.

"What's up?"

"We've got an opening to hit the district headquarters. Patrols have been shifted away from Ürümqi. We could probably sneak in a small team, five or so, and sabotage their weapons cache."

Po nodded. "If we're going to hit it, we better get heading out now. Getting in there to plant the bombs will be easy, it's the getting out that's the problem."

"Stay low, wait for tomorrow night before you strike," he offered. Another Long March guerrilla removed his headset and stood up from the radio desk.

"How's the traffic?"

"Light. Confirming air recon is moving away from the capital district. Looks like Chou's attacks to New Karamay are finally getting a response."

"So it's now or never," Po asked herself rhetorically.

"We're luck this isn't two-hundred years ago, when most of this area was barren desert. At least you'll have some cover," the other warned, tapping the area outside Ürümqi.

"Roger that," she said, as she caught a rifle tossed at her. "We make the trip, we'll be there by late tomorrow afternoon. Everyone, synchronize your watches. We're shooting for twenty-two hundred."

**IV**

If there was one thing the _Peacemillion-_class battleship _Over the Rainbow _had, it was space. Along the front of the keel, just underneath the main superstructure, a secondary mess hall necessary for the large crew that originally operated it was converted into a guest dining room, with a high ceiling and lined with windows on one side.

Counter Admiral Yuri Kuznetsov helped himself to OZ's food and booze, which he'd been missing since Alliance supply lines were cut immediately after 'Daybreak'. Across the table sat Colonel Treize Khushrenada, waiting patiently for him to finish. For such a fit man, he had a voracious appetite.

"I suppose you've got a nice deal here, Treize," the admiral congratulated him. "The Gundams have been quiet, giving you time to secure disputed territories on Earth. Meanwhile, every day that passes, OZ looks like a better and better choice for the colonies, huh?"

"I hope that's the case."

"But you still need to deal with Haiti, Utah, Xinjiang…"

"Only if they pose a threat to Earth as a whole," Treize corrected him. "OZ is not in the business of managing domestic politics on Earth. If the former-Alliance has political support in certain sovereign states on Earth, and does not pose an aggressive threat, then they're not our enemy."

_Spoken like a politician. _"And what about Outer Space?"

"It's not an analogous situation," Treize countered confidently.

"I suppose not." He took another mouthful of venison. "Then again, it's not my business now, is it? I've been looking forward to my retirement for a while now."

"So long as you remember our prior agreement, Admiral."

"Yeah, yeah, Treize. Our agreement. It's exactly why I'm looking forward to it."

A junior officer crossed the room to the table, bowing before Treize and whispering something in his ear. Treize nodded at him before setting down his fork.

"I'm afraid we'll need to cut this evening short, Admiral. I'm needed in Luxembourg again."

"Give my regards to Earth," Kuznetsov replied, before continuing to stuff his face.

"I'd be happy to do so, _sir_," Treize said, amusing himself. Kuznetsov shook his head and rolled his eyes, before moving on to another plate.

**V**

Dressed in a new, starched wool dress uniform, F/L Ogasawara Emi gussied herself up in the lavatory mirror the military passenger liner. Reaching into her pocket, she produced the tube of lipstick she used as war paint and actually used it as intended, pursing her lips.

She pulled on her white gloves, before adjusting her cape. Military culture was nearly as old as human culture, and any military force worth its salt had its own kind of culture. For OZ, its culture was steeped in neochivalry, a post-democratic development, technocracy, self-sacrifice and aesthetics. When more than four out of five commissioned officers were under the age of twenty-five, and only one out of ten officers was married, vanity became regimented and one's appearance became deeply connected with military discipline. OZ was an army of academy graduates; the marines or airborne had their own traditions, but the Order of the Zodiac was intended to be immediately recognizable as the most professional force in Earth Sphere.

It was even worse who'd been given noble titles. Emi was a baronetess, not uncommon among experienced flight lieutenants, and she was counting on making at least baroness before the war was over. She'd always been "tall, dark and handsome," as people called it, going back to her childhood. Now she was expected to carry herself with an enormous amount of dignity, married with the sexuality that was the one thing from her civilian life she carried with her.

She smoothed out the creases in her sleeves then exited the lavatory. F/O Tsujimoto was waiting in full dress, a light maroon cap draped over one shoulder. It was the only time she wore her folding cap.

"You took your time," she jibbed.

"No chocolate?" she jibbed back, as they joined Syed Khan.

A procession of flagged limousine ferried OZ officers, most returning from west China, west Belarus and the Caucasus. A number were being honored at the Hall of the Order of St. Andrew, in the Grand Kremlin Palace in the city center, for valor at the frontlines. For the rest, it was an opportunity to join in attendance, cheering their comrades on.

"It's like stepping back in a time machine," P/O Bishop observed, his head and the camera he held pressed up against the glass. "This place looks even older than Luxembourg. Or Bremen!"

"It is the capital of Russia," F/O Mazuri offered. "It has been for centuries."

"That's St. Petersburg," Walker said, correcting him. "Moscow hasn't been the capital of Russia for more than two hundred years. It is the capital of the Union of Eurasian Republics, that's why they call it the 'federal city'. Apparently, the Russian monarchy built all these buildings before they grew tired of them, then moved to St. Petersburg."

F/O Kaneshiro Kanna stared at her reflection in her polished riding boots. "And in the meantime, everyone who's come after them—the Soviets, the republicans, the neocapitalists and now the Union—has to keep them clean and shining."

Walker glanced at Kanna, who winked at him. "I read the inflight magazine too, _Taichō_."

Walker raised his hands, with his palms open at Kanna, and smiled.

_Contrary to the stereotype, it appears the Eurasians run a tight ship. At least when it comes to foreigners. _Their limousine passed through the the gate at the base Spasskaya "Savior" Clock Tower, passed uniformed honor guard marching alongside Red Square in the Prussian style. The red brick walls of the Moscow Kremlin made a rough triangle shape, inside which were a number of extremely old buildings with brightly colored roofs. The car stopped alongside several others in Cathedral Square, uncreatively named after four cathedrals within the Kremlin arranged in a square.

"Subtle," Dac observed.

The four-man team exited the vehicle and looked to the southwest at the massive Grand Kremlin Palace, an ornate white building with gold trim and green roofs. Within a few minutes, they rushed into the even more ornate Aleksandrovsky Hall.

"Okay, now _this _is subtle," Dac said aloud, looking at the golden hallways lined with diamonds, jewels and mosaics. They were separated form Walker, who joined a number of other flight lieutenants and a single lieutenant colonel at the end of the hallway.

The chamber was packed with civilian dignitaries, both from the Union and from Romefeller Foundation, and guests from the associated military forces. They were joined by several press crews speaking a number of languages.

Walker listened in on the team from the British Broadcasting Corporation, as they spoke English. "We're here at the Hall of the Order of St. Andrew, where seven OZ military officers will be recognized for valor by the Eurasian President, Mr. Viktor Atambeyev, and congratulate them on their success in the two recently-concluded Eurasian campaigns."

"Considering how much the BBC seemed to hate us so far, I'm surprised to see them here."

"Chernenko?" Walker turned his head in the direction of the familiar voice. As he suspected, F/L Dmitry Chernenko was standing by the wall, in his dress hunter greens, waiving at him with one hand. "I thought so. How was Belarus?"

"Different then when I spent my summers there. A lot different," he admitted.

"I meant the campaign."

"Of course. Do you remember O'Brien?"

"Your second seat, right?"

Chernenko nodded, as Walker leaned on the wall next to him. "Had to make a hard landing just across the Polish border, near Bialystok. The medics got to him fine, but he's still recovering from the concussion, apparently. I think he's being reassigned to Noin's command."

"I suppose she's not doing much right now," Walker offered.

"It seems like that. Then again, we're not the real show here," he explained, before pointing to his left. "She is."

In a nearby archway stood Ogasawara Emi, next to F/O Tsujimoto. Her appearance surprised Walker. _I haven't seen her since Mirny, have I? _She looked just as he remembered her. _She's wearing more makeup than I seen her with, must be for the cameras and the ceremony. She's got an injury on her neck, just underneath the jawline. Might have been very serious at the time, but it's healing nicely. Probably won't even be a scar in a few weeks. _

While speaking to Nabiki, she ran a hand through hair. _Same for the bruise behind her ear, I'd say. Hard to notice compared to her losing the eye patch. _

"Walker," Chernenko said, interrupting his thoughts.

He turned his head. "I'm sorry, yes?"

Chernenko grinned at him. "Nothing, never mind."

"I know that face," a new voice said. A Eurasian officer in his sea-wave green dress uniform approached the two, whom Walker didn't recognize immediately. Chernenko stared at him inquisitively as the man, in his late twenties and with a number of medals hanging from his breast, including a red ribbon over a small gold star, the highest military award in the country: Hero of the Eurasian Union.

Walker's eyes widened. "Novikov! Well, it's been a while, hasn't it? I didn't recognize you."

Major Konstantin Novikov, a Kazakh with straight black hair and piercing blue eyes that seemed wholly out of place, smiled back at him. "Have I changed that much?"

"No, not really," Walker admitted, shaking his hand. "It's just been a while."

"Who's this?" Chernenko asked.

"A comrade from my early days in Japan," he explained.

"Konstantin Dmitrievich Novikov," he said, introducing himself.

Chernenko quickly shook his hand. "Dmitry Aleksandrovich Chernenko. _Zedras Tvooytyeh, Tovarisch Mayor._"

"_Spasibo, Aviacy Kapitan_," Novikov replied, using the Russian words for 'captain of aviation', what most Russophones called F/L in their own tongue. "It looks like they're about to get started, we'll speak again after the ceremony."

"Definitely."

The two flight lieutenants took their place in the line, starting with the lieutenant colonel. Walker stood to the immediate left of Emi, as all seven of them stood rigidly along Aleksandrovsky Hall. An honor guard officer in a very shiny Eurasian uniform with a peaked cap and a golden aiguillette was followed by a thin middle-aged man in a dark grey suit whom Walker assumed was Viktor Atambeyev, or less likely a very convincing double. A short ceremony began, with Atambeyev exchanging some words in heavily-accented English with the lieutenant colonel. When they finished, the Eurasian President took one of the seven medals arranged neatly on a felt-layered platter carried by the attending officer.

_So that's the Order of the Red Banner. It's the highest award commonly awarded to OZ personnel, and Alliance officers before them. _The order was famous in the Red Army, as it donned the names and flags of highly decorated Guards battalions and divisions. The actual medal was a white-enamelled badge surrounded by two golden wreaths, with a red star over the Russian letters **С. С. Е. Р.** and under a red flag bearing the national anthem. The badge was suspended from a red-white-red ribbon. Red was a big color in the Eurasian Union. _Atambeyev was known for being pro-_Speciali _back in the day, and during 'Daybreak' he was extremely cooperative in dismantling the headquarters of multiple Alliance districts in his own country. Now that that's come and gone, though, I wonder what he stands to gain from this._

Atambeyev was making his way down the line. Unlike the Red Army, who wore their medals on their left breast, OZ and the Alliance both wore theirs from their collars first. He took a medal and tied it around Emi's collar, as he'd done before, and shook her hand.

_And Eurasia is as instrumental as any country when it comes to Outer Space operations. _

"Glory to you, Flight Lieutenant,"

"Thank you, Comrade President," Emi replied somberly.

He told Walker the same, who expressed his gratitude similarly, a large medal now hanging from his collar. A smile appeared on Atambeyev's face when he spotted Chernenko, and he began speaking in Russian what Walker could only assume was the typical spiel Speciali used to get from politicians.

"It's very good to see one of our own countrymen in OZ's ranks. Where are you from, son?"

"Kharkov, Comrade President."

"Very good, Captain. Continue being excellent."

**VI**

It was the same day, the eighth of July, when one of the Gundam pilots regained consciousness from a coma. As he stirred, the medical monitors hooked up to him beeped, detecting increased respiration and spiking blood pressure.

"Relena…" Heero Yuy mumbled, sitting in an improvised medical bed.

He was alone, except a young woman a few years older who'd been sitting nearby, her back facing him. She'd put down her knitting and approached his bed. "Hey, you're finally talking again. I'll go get Trowa!"

She exited the small room, which actually turned out to be the cabin of a minibus. "Trowa! Your friend's awake and talking!"

She leaned back into the cabin. "I'm Catherine Bloom, by the way. You must be hungry!"

_Not Relena_, he thought. For a second, he'd mistaken her for Relena Darlian.

"Here, I'll get something for you to eat."

Heero wasn't thinking of food. He was actually thinking of the heart monitoring sensors attached to his chest. Aside from his bandages, he was nude underneath his bed sheets, with gauze covering much of his left shoulder and some of his legs.

As he began to get his bearings, Catherine was happy to explain what had happened. "This isn't the first time you've woken, but you hadn't said anything until today. We thought it might be brain damage. When you started moving again, we removed your feeding tube and helped you swallow on your own, and moved you around to avoid bedsores."

Heero nodded. Even at his best, he wasn't much of a talker.

Another young man entered, a fellow Gundam pilot whom he recognized immediately: Trowa Barton. Catherine fixed some soup, the smell of which Heero seemed to recognize immediately, in no small part because it had been all he'd eaten for the last month. Sitting next to Heero, Trowa put his hands together, indicating that he had his undivided attention.

"Where am I?"

"In a traveling circus," Trowa explained.

Trowa turned on a nearby TV monitor, which was set to a local news channel. An OZ officer, identified on screen as Lieutenant Colonel Andrews, was speaking at a press conference. "_The forces currently engaged with OZ have ignored our pleas in regards to disarmament, and continue to cause unnecessary carnage across Earth._"

"You've been out for a month. OZ hasn't touched the Colonies," Trowa explained.

"_A whole month?_" He felt his sore, stiff body.

"OZ probably thinks your KIA. And you're no longer duty-bound Colonies."

Heero sighed. "Have you received new orders?"

Trowa shook his head. "No. Not a single mission since that day."

"I see…"

Trowa sighed. "I wish I had your lack of indecision. If OZ held the Colonies hostage again, I have no idea what we'd do."

"If you're interested in following my example," Heero began, flexing one of his arms and wincing in pain, "…let me tell you one thing: dying hurts like hell."

To the surprise of the rest of the room, Trowa laughed at Heero's declaration.

"I never do this, but I need to ask you a favor: can you explain what I've missed since I've been out?"

"Of course. Are you strong enough to stand?" he asked, as Heero reached for a pair of pants.

"No idea, but I'd like to get off this bedpan in the meantime."

**VII**

At Lake Victoria, Gunther Mieser looked over Gundam-01. He had no way of knowing, but just as the pilot's coma had ended for certain, so was his mobile suit nearly finished. It hadn't been an easy task:

_Most of all, we're lucky that we could divert Gundamnium to it. You could count all the supply caches of Gundanium on Earth on one hand, and they're constantly monitored. _He crossed his arms and stared at the Gundam's distinctive faceplate. _If it weren't from Colonel Khushrenada, we would have never gotten them. But the real question is how Khushrenada's going to replace the Gundanium we've used here. If he doesn't, someone in the military supply chain will have to find out. And once they do, so will the Foundation. _

Mieser suspected Romefeller Foundation already had a suspicion of what was going on. The Foundation wasn't known to be a suspicious body—if anything, they were probably insufficiently diligent when it came to their own leadership, the opposite of OZ with its damnable military commissariat.

_It would have to come from Outer Space, where the polymer has to be synthesized in the first place. _In the press, there were rumors that Treize had gone, unannounced, into Outer Space to mediate between _Barge _and an Alliance taskforce. Even an official periodical of the Order of the Zodiac, the military newspaper _La Alba Nero_, mentioned it in a page two article. _Maybe that's why._

"Mieser."

He turned to see Zechs Merquise approaching, in full uniform as usual. He stood at attention for the lieutenant colonel. "Sir."

"It seems like we've done it," the Lightning Count observed, surveying the Gundam: with the exception the exposed servomotor housing of the hands, and between the upper and lower limbs, the multimode radar dishes, and a few other components, it was solid off-white. Even then, it looked imposing and frightening, while still a work of art.

"We've run our own tests…it won't be the same until we get it out into the field, but we expect the modified Taurus reactor will output just under three megawatts, as expected."

"Who did the test?"

Mieser touched his chin with his right hand. "You'd be surprised: Bishop offered."

Zechs was surprised, and indicated it by looking down slightly. "You don't say."

Mieser nodded, remembering it vividly: Rani volunteered to sit in the cockpit the first time they'd powered the Gundam up. On one hand, there was minimal risk—OZ had the best engineers in Earth Sphere, and Lake Victoria could make a respectable showing of itself, having rebuilt a Gundam from nothing but surviving parts, observation, and the blueprints of the OZ-00MS 'Tallgeese'. Having a man, or in this case, a woman, in the actual cockpit, could tell you thinks you wouldn't find out otherwise. On the other hand, something could go wrong. After rebuilding one, a Gundam should not have remained an unknown quantity, but it managed to do so. And a modified, overcharged ultracompact fusion reactor from an OZ-12SMS 'Taurus' could explode with the force of a large extraterrestrial missile or a very small hydrogen bomb.

_"You're sure about this, Rani?"_

_"Stop stalling and let's get this over with!" _she snapped back over the radio, sounding nervous. Jim looked at Mieser and just shrugged, as he entered the command line to remotely power up the Gundam. The computer's screen blinked and a second later, the Gundam hummed back to life.

_"Rani, how's it look?"_

_"Reactor online. Systems online. Weapons online. All systems nominal. Output rising…and now holding steady. Internal gyroscope and variable geometry responding." _The Gundam's head moved slightly, as she pushed around on the stick. _"Telemetry's responding."_

_"Vibrations?"_

_"Nothing on my side."_

Gunther glanced over at the test reports from the initial startup, then back at Zechs. "We won't know until we get it out in the field, but everything we've seen so far suggests it'll work just as designed, if not better."

Zechs nodded slightly. "And Ms. Bishop?"

"Actually, I haven't seen her since the test. I suppose she stepped out along with everyone else. Would you like to try it yourself, sir?"

"No, not yet. Perhaps I shouldn't take it all," Zechs admitted thoughtfully. "I set out to recreate that pilot's Gundam, not make it my own. Besides, it looks like there's still some work to be done."

Mieser glanced back at the Gundam. "So, you think we should paint it?" he asked, a hint of humor in his voice.

Zechs smiled back. "As an engineer I used to know would say, 'Overlook the details, and you give them just enough time to stab you in the back.'"

Mieser nodded. He had no way of knowing, but at this same time, Rachel Nina Bishop was boarding a commercial aircraft in Nairobi, in civilian dress and with luggage in hand. "Yes sir. We'll begin cosmetic restoration to XXXG-01W 'Wing Gundam' immediately."

**VIII (Eyecatch)**

"What do you make of all this?"

Walker stood next to Novikov, looking out windows the Grand Kremlin Palace that overlooked a huge, modern building with reflective windows north of them. It looked like a normal government building rather than an ancient palace, as most buildings in the Kremlin did.

Novikov crossed his arms as Walker kept his eyes planted on the reflection of the palace next door. "Actually, I wanted to ask you that. I know what happened at Mirny is a big secret to everyone, apparently, but I would like to know what exactly happened to that Gundam."

"That Gundam?" Walker asked, still looking away.

"The one that self-destructed outside Mirny, the airborne model. I know procedure, and I know that the Gundams are the domain of OZ, not the independent nations. But I'd still like to know what Zechs Merquise did with all those parts he recovered. The damage wasn't nearly as bad as initially speculated."

"Don't be so sure," Walker countered. "What's that building next door, the one with the reflective windows?"

Novikov approached the window. "That would be the State Kremlin Palace. It's where the larger house of parliament meets, the Council of the Union."

"It looks strange."

Novikov sighed. "A few hundred years ago, there were some churches there. But at the time, the church stopped ruling the country, so eventually, they demolished some of them to make space for political congresses. If you want a church, there's a whole square of them next door."

"No thanks, I was just curious," Walker admitted, turning from the window. "To answer your question, I don't know what happened to the Gundam. Not even where the remains were transported. You would be better off asking someone from the Romefeller Foundation."

Novikov sighed, touching the bridge of his nose with two fingers briefly. "I thought you might say that."

"Being in the Main Intelligence Directorate is hard work, isn't it?"

"It's not something I expect you to understand. I remember how it was. There are as many employees in the GRU as there were Specials pilots in all of Europe," he said, using the department's acronym.

"Do you miss it?"

"Every day. I don't mind telling you that. It was a difficult road from Lake Victoria, and I couldn't handle it." Novikov sounded genuinely remorseful. "I missed 'Daybreak'. I'll live with that."

"I wouldn't say you couldn't handle it," Walker offered.

Novikov crossed his arms and shook his head. "You should get going. This isn't leave, after all."

Walker nodded and saluted the other man sharply. Pausing for a moment, Novikov sighed and saluted him back.

"Good evening, Comrade Flight Lieutenant."

**IX**

Enjoying his golden years as the eternal tourist, Michael Wú left the luggage carousel at London Heathrow, suitcase in hand, and strolled across hall to the connections terminal. It wasn't long before a familiar voice caught his ear, and he turned to the crowd waiting just beyond the velvet rope. A much younger Caucasian woman, with long blond hair in in a ponytail and braids.

"Mr. Wú! Over here!" Forcing her way through the crowd, she boldly climbed over the velvet rope, the girl ran over to him and shook his waiting hands rapidly.

"If it isn't little _Rani_," he said, smiling back at her. "Still so pretty. A boy like Walker was stupid to let you go."

Rani beamed back at him. She'd always liked Mr. Wú, and she'd known him as long as she'd known Walker.

Mr. Wú hadn't seen Rachel Nina Bishop in a few years. In fact, when he'd gotten the call in the middle of his flight, he was more than a little surprised. The two sat down on a bench on the waiting area.

"So, tell me, how did you know I'd be changing flights in London?" he asked.

"A lucky guess, really," she insisted, holding her hands in front of her.

"I don't believe _that_. Try again."

She scratched her cheek with a finger. "How….about I heard it from Dac?"

"That's better," Mr. Wú said, satisfied. "I heard that fool brother of yours was also in Hong Kong, but I didn't have a chance to meet him."

"Probably for the better."

He stretched his arms. "So, tell me, Rani, what's on your _mind_?"

She got right to the point. "How's Walker?"

"He seems fine. Considering everything that's happened, maybe better than that. He's taking his new position fine."

She rested her chin on her hands. "That's good to hear."

Mr. Wú stared into her blue-green eyes. "He didn't speak of you. I'm sorry."

She smiled back, apparently unaffected. "I know."

He leaned back, feigning anger. "If you _know _so much, they why are you asking?"

"First, I didn't…" she began, before realizing he wasn't really mad. "…I'm not surprised. Believe it or not, I don't think of him that often. Well, not until recently," she explained, looking away.

He noticed she was still smiling. "Why is that?"

She turned back to him. "Was there really nothing wrong with him?"

The two sat in silence for a few minutes, as Mr. Wú crossed his arms and leaned back on the bench. "You kids _over-complicate _things," he told her distastefully. Rani giggled at the comment.

He continued. "Before he was called back to the front, Walker wrote me a letter."

"When?" Rani asked quickly.

"Well, about an hour before I guess."

"I mean _when was he called back to the front?_"

"Less than two weeks ago. If you followed the news, you'd know that OZ has stopped fighting in Xinjiang."

She grunted. "I _do _follow the news. What did the letter say?"

Mr. Wú stared at her, starting to look uncomfortable.

**X**

Colonel Bundt did not care for being woken at night. "_What the hell's all that racket?_"

It wasn't the earlier small arms fire that woke him so much as the RDX explosive blocks. A number of explosions rocked the concrete buildings and barracks that made up the headquarters of the West Chinese Military District, Nanaki snatched the handset from the communications officer. "The guerillas, sir!"

"_Well then go after them, destroy them this time!_"

"I'm personally handling this, sir!" he promised before hanging up. "Goddamn Long March is braver than we thought," he mumbled to himself.

"Orders, Major?"

"Mobilize the whole company…no, wait. They're planning on that. They want us chasing a few saboteurs with the entire combat corps. Get me all roads out of Ürümqi, especially smaller ones with more cover."

He turned back to the communications officer. "Get ahold of every machine currently in the field, tell them to watch out for something small, like a cargo truck, maybe one of ours."

"Yes sir!"

"Sir! A scout team from the Eighty-Eighth Light Recon spotted a cargo truck fleeing the scene! They've got an armed jeep and two IFV_s_!"

"Good, we've got those bastards this time."

"Does this mean you won't be handling this personally?" a junior officer asked.

Nanaki shook his head. "Not again, no more mistakes. I need three rapid deployment Leos!"

"Right away sir!"

In the terraformed forests outside of Ürümqi, Sally Po and three other Long March guerillas used stolen anti-vehicle grenades to deal with the scout team that had been pursuing them. A lucky throw from Po's comrade knocked the jeep four meters into the air, killing the soldiers onboard.

Nanaki was already on the scene, joined by two comrades. Their OZ-06MS2 'Early Leos' were in rapidly deployment mode, ferried by purpose-designed cargo helicopters that could drop them to any trouble spot. They'd been Nanaki's in the early aftermath of 'Daybreak', and Bundt knew a good idea when he saw one—another thing Nanaki appreciated.

"_Recon 2 is down! Repeat, Recon 2 is on fire and off the road!_"

Nanaki touched the mouthpiece of his headset. "This is Bianzhong Leader, break off pursuit and evac the wounded. We'll deal with these rebels."

"_Affirmative, Bianzhong Leader._"

Nanaki kept scanning for the rebel truck. A helicopter insertion was probably the _least _stealthy way to deploy an 16-meter tall mobile suit, but he was counting on the visibility from that truck being nothing to boast about.

"_Sir! Getting some movement, heading zero-seven-zero, at four hundred!_"

He switched to highest power magnification on his main camera. There was definitely something in the area, and there were no friendlies in the area. "Good enough for me, helicopter group, open fire at designate target and prepare to deploy!"

All three helicopters emptied their 68 mm rocket pods in the direction of their flight plan, engulfing a chunk of the forest in flames. A second later, an second explosion—probably a ammo truck or some rocket artillery—confirmed their suspicions.

"All units, deploy on my mark!" He checked his leg actuators and his landing thrusters. "Deploy in three…two…one!"

The three Leos performed their low altitude drop, landing with quick bursts from their rocket thrusters in a knelt-down position.

_Smooth landing._ He toggled his main floodlight, causing it to flash red briefly, and addressed his comrades."Colonel Bundt's orders: no more escapees! Assume 'V' formation!"

Armed with shields and their standard 105 mm autocannons, they descended through the trees, waiting for the rebels to reveal themselves. They soon did, with shoulder-fired rockets, which exploded harmlessly against their shields and armored surfaces, failing to trigger the ERA. Pressing down on a foot pedal, Nanaki swiveled his machine's torso and spotted a pair of Long Marchers with a rocket launcher.

"Fools…" he said, before putting them under his reticle and squeezing the trigger once. A single burst of HEAM fire turned the spot into a number of craters.

His wingman spotted a few other rebels and announced them, pinging them over the datalink. "_They're climbing the hill!_" He switched over to his exterior speaker. "_We're not accepting offers to surrender!_"

As Nanaki adjusted his aim, a burst of fire cut clean through the dawn redwoods, cracking branches and destroying Bianzhong 1-3's camera. As designed, the Leo's armored "eye shield" folded downwards to protect the remaining electronics in the cranial compartment.

"_What the hell was that?_"

"_Bianzhong 1-3, fall back!_"

Nanaki shielded his own comrade with his machine as another mobile suit entered his field of view through the redwoods. "…is that…is that a _Gundam_?"

"_Shit!_"

"_Why is a Gundam here?_"

"All units, fall back! Ground support, retreat!"

The Gundam just stood on the top of the hill, looming at them, as they focused their fire on it. It made no effort to dodge, but their HEAM shells had no effect but to blacken the outside of its white finish and level more redwoods.

_Have we overloaded his actuators? _That was a crucial difference between HEAM and APFSDS—armor-piercing ammunition would just punch holes in its target, but high-explosive exploded and battered it. "Keep it up! We can kill this!"

An angry response was heard over the open channel. "_Don't underestimate Nataku!_"

Then it made its move. 'Nataku' ignited its beam trident, creating three closed energy loops encased in powerful magnetic fields, then fired its vernier thrusters, launching into the air. Landing before the Leos, it swung the trident and fatally crippled two machines by filling their cockpits with molten slag. Bianzhong Actual barely escaped when Nanaki fired his retro-thruster, only losing one of his legs. His machine fell through the air and crashed into the woodland, almost killing him in the process.

He fought off the nausea of a concussion and radioed headquarters. "This is Bianzhong Leader, we've spotted a Gundam at thirty-two, seventeen! Repeat, we've spotted a Gundam!"

Within seconds of his warning, his cockpit electronics died, likely from having fallen back on his machine's reactor without firing his forward thrusters rockets. Nanaki sat in in the darkness of his crippled machine, waiting for the killing blow. When it failed to come, he opened his eyes again. Fearfully, he steeled himself and pulled the emergency cockpit release, next to his the ejection lever. The explosive bolts fitted along the frame of the torso blew the armored titanium door off its hydraulics and left it resting on its loose hinges. Pulling the release also activated the battery-powered emergency transponder.

Battered and bruised, Nanaki climbed out of his cockpit, felt the bleeding wound over his brow, and carefully slid down off the wreck. He took one look back at his machine before kicking it vainly with his left foot.

_I should be grateful for having survived a Gundam. But damn it all, I missed dinner with my family for this?_

**XI**

Aboard the EASFS _Callisto_, BC-120, Counter Admiral Kuznetsov stood the modern command-and-control center on the bridge, watching glowing holographic points marking other cruisers moving in proximity of Colony L1-D-120 at Lagrange Point 1. Modern warships like the _Ganymede-_class did not feature the old fashion "command chairs" of older vessels, which served little strategic purpose and did more to foster the larger-than-life image of an egocentric skipper. Instead there was a short tower at the back, where the command-and-control officers sat in seats that could be rotated to face forward.

_I'm just old enough to miss the captain's chair_, he thought wistfully as the c-and-c sounded a warning tone, and several ships were highlighted on the projected map.

"Admiral, we're being hailed by the _Calypso._"

"Bring it up."

"Aye, sir." A moment later and a portrait image of a thin Caucasian woman in her mid-sixties with cloudy blue eyes appeared on a monitor in the communications station. Her face had a taunt, almost bony smile on, yet managed to look at least mildly friendly amid her worn-out features. Behind her was the similar bridge of a _Titan-_class cruiser, BC-101.

"_Hello, Yuri._"

"Hello, Admiral Arroway. It's been a while." Arroway was a rarity in the in the Alliance: an elderly female officer. Her rank, less so: anything less for a man or woman with more than forty years in the Alliance Space Forces' officer corps would have been an insult. That's why they were usually drummed out before then.

Arroway's smile vanished. "_Yuri, what's wrong? Why are you late for the rendezvous?_"

Kuznetsov tilted his head. "What makes you think anything's wrong?"

"_Your voice, Yuri. Never play poker, you've got no face for it. Why were you late with the rendezvous? Did you intercept the _Over the Rainbow_? Looking at your force, I thought you missed it…_"

Yuri cut her off. "I'm afraid there's not going to be a rendezvous, Arroway."

"_What are you talking about? Yuri, I know orders are no longer orders, but you can't expect me to take a colony by myself here._"

"You're going to have to, comrade. It's out of my hands."

"_What the hell are you talking about, Kuznetsov? What's happening?_"

A voice spoke from the bridge, forward of Kuznetsov. "Give me a breakdown of ex-Alliance taskforce."

An officer standing at the other end of the command-and-control center responded. "Yes, ma'am. Confirming eleven vessels: four _Titan-_class, three _Berlin-_class, one _Los Angele-_class, two Type IIX frigates and one _Armstrong-_class frigate."

"Five cruisers, three escort carriers and three frigates. Interesting arrangement."

"_Who is that? Yuri, what's going on?_"

In a move that surprised him, Kuznetsov felt himself _physically_ pushed away from the communications console, as Lieutenant Colonel Soris Armonia took his place. She was grinning dangerously, as usual.

Arroway looked genuinely stunned on her own bridge. "Kuznetsov? Who is this over-painted tart?"

Lady Soris seemed to be enjoying herself immensely. "_Lieutenant Colonel Armonia, of OZ's space forces. You're ordered to stand down and surrender your forces._"

"Is that so, _Lieutenant Colonel Armonia?_ And what makes you think you can do that?" she countered.

Soris' smile changed briefly and the transmission ended. She turned away from the console and began loosening her belt. "Command to all ships: assume standoff positions, weapons free. Mobile suit teams, stand by for further orders."

"You incredible bastard," Kuznetsov mumbled, sitting at a crew seat, his head in his hands.

"Interesting word choice, Counter Admiral," Soris mumbled, still smiling from ear to ear. "I'm a mobile suit commander, Admiral Kuznetsov. Why wouldn't I use the machines I brought aboard your ships?"

Kuznetsov didn't respond, so Soris continued, as she unbuttoned her tunic. "Then again, I guess they're not your ships any longer, are they? Luna."

A junior OZ officer, a younger, short-haired brunette in a hunter green uniform, stood up from the crew positions, where'd she'd been sitting among the bridge officers. "Yes, ma'am?" she asked quietly, matching Soris' dangerous eyes.

"Manage things here, please."

"I will. Be safe, ma'am."

"I don't need to be," she said, practically singing her response, as she left the bridge, her tunic over her shoulder.

Luna turned her laser-like stare on the admiral. "Counter Admiral, order all ships to prepare for launch their mobile suits."

"And if I don't?"

With careful, deliberate motions, the junior officer opened her leather holster and drew her service pistol, which she aimed at him from the hip. Kuznetsov looked up and saw that, despite her unusual stance, she had no problem pointing the pistol directly at his head.

"Reconsider, Admiral, sir."

"Go to hell, little child," he announced, sitting down at an empty station. The barrel of the gun followed him.

"Counter Admiral, please excuse me while I relieve you of your command," she said. Then on cue, a squad of marines in combat-grade normal suits, dark colored and featuring protecting composite armor, entered the bridge through the main door, armed with sub-machineguns with extended suppressors, the kind intended for indoor use. They took positions covering the the entrance, then all four corners of the bridge.

"You are relieved."

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Kuznetsov (the Russian equivalent of "Smith") is (or was) an Alliance Counter Admiral, a rank equivalent to Rear Admiral in the West while managing to sound not nearly as stupid. It's the deck equivalent of Brigadier General, and the lowest rank of admiral (a "one-star" admiral). As such, Kuznetsov does outrank Treize, just like the various generals at New Edwards did. OZ is a strange entity: at its head, a commissioned officer with the rank only of colonel. _

_Moving meant this chapter took longer than expected. On the other hand, it also meant that there were times where my laptop was one of the few things I owned that wasn't sitting in a moving box. It's just a 'temporary' measure—I hope._

_As usual, I'll be following my tendency of grouping a certain number of chapters together into one 'episode', with this one being the start of a new one (a good indication is a gap in time with little happening to the characters—say, the flight period where Walker and company were shuffled from the east and west to Moscow for the ceremony). The next one will pick up immediately from here, and probably have some more Po action going on. Nanaki was kind of a missed opportunity for me—like Walker, he's a character that could have been explored considerably ("Soldier of Xinjiang: Nanaki's Journey.") Given some more thought, I might have included him in the earlier plot…sadly, the whole "China" incident is well-contained in a single episode and not related into a greater OZ vs. Alliance Remnant plot. In the meantime, as you can probably tell, I like Soris and Luna—Treize got some well-deserved screen time too. In retrospect, the chapter could probably have better pacing (I blame the move). _

_So…G-Pilots appeared! As promised! Also, a new chapter of _The Glory of Losers _came out, and I'm weighing the benefits of making some minor adjustments to the train interception scene—Sandrock does pull off some pretty sweet scythe action! _


	19. Holiday in Kaliningrad

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 19 **– Holiday in Kaliningrad ****

Svetlogorsk was a small, high-class resort town—such things did exist in the Eurasian Union, indeed they were very popular with the well-off—in Kaliningrad, itself a Eurasian exclave on the Baltic Sea between Poland and Lithuania, and a few dozen kilometers from the borders of the Republic of Belarus. Named after a largely forgotten by otherwise fondly remembered socialist politician from centuries ago, Kaliningrad had spent centuries as a strange hybrid between military strongpoint, technological hub and university town, where Eurasian sailors could rub elbows with distinguished foreign students and middle-class tourists from Poland or Germany—all under close observation from the local government. According to the various plaques that sat near the castles and statues, it had been this way for centuries. Of course, they also claimed that Kaliningrad had once been a place called Königsberg, before it was conquered from Germany, which Flight Lieutenant Walker did not entirely believe _either_. Even if the place was filled with suspiciously Germanic castles.

Walker was next to Flight Officer Mazuri, who was stretched out in a pair of swim trunks and sitting on a folding chair on the sandy beaches. It was a beautiful summer day, with a breeze coming in from the Baltic Sea. The beach was filled with two groups of people: university students enjoying a Saturday, and OZ officers enjoying leave on the Order's dime. In swimsuits, it was difficult to tell the difference between the two groups, except for the occasional smiling 20-year-old with grievous scars on his or her back that would otherwise be hidden by their uniform. Sounds of laughter were interrupted by the occasional helicopter passing overhead or bus passing the boardwalk.

Feeling the sand between his toes, Walker sat in a folding chair in an ugly Hawaiian shirt and baggy shorts, a clipboard on his lap as he attempted to write a letter.

"You don't have a pen, do you, Ajay?" he asked.

Mazuri, who had abandoned his own folding chair, raised both of his hands. He was naked except for his swim trunks. "Who are you writing to?"

"A friend being reassigned to Outer Space, in a Taurus unit."

"You know, F/L, I'm sure you hear this all day, but you should probably learn to relax."

"This _is _relaxing," he countered.

"Fine, fine," Ali said with a sigh. "Just for as bit, though, take a look over there."

He looked up. In the shallow water, F/O Kaneshiro and P/O Bishop were splashing around, doing something. When he focused in, he could see that they were engaged in some sort of game. Maybe they were wrestling? In any case, he could not see how Kanna, in a bright red one-piece athletic swimsuit, could possibly lose to a notably shorter, notably skinnier Dac, who was wading around awkwardly in a similar Hawaiian shirt and green swim trunks.

"Never fight someone in the water if your legs are that much shorter," Walker offered.

"Another _Walkerism_," Mazuri said, digging his feet into the sand. "No, to the left."

About two-thirds of the way to the water and to the left, a towel had been laid out. Lying on her back was F/L Ogasawara, wearing a pair of big sunglasses and a small white swimsuit. Next to her was F/O Tsujimoto, who was lying on her stomach, head towards the surf. Both remained perfectly motionless.

Walker stared, squinting his eyes thanks the reflection of the sun off the ocean. Mazuri looked at him, grinning smugly. He managed still look handsome while smug, his hair wet and slicked back, grinning. Walker felt a little less happy with his own appearance.

"She can really fill out an o-ring bikini, huh?"

"Fill out?" Walker asked.

"You know…she's got…long legs…and big…" he said, making a gesture at his own chest with both hands, before standing up in defeat. As usual, Walker's response to this line of questioning from his subordinates was an obtusely blank expression and statements more at home at a Socratic seminar. Even if Ogasawara didn't buy it, it reliably frustrated Dac and Mazuri. "Ugh."

Walker returned to writing his letter.

"You know, F/L," he said, leaning towards him. "You're not a bad-looking guy. You've got that whole 'naive' thing a lot of women like. Like a less stupid version of Dac."

"Say that a little louder, I don't think he heard you, Ajay."

"LIKE A LESS STUPID VERSION OF DAC," he yelled, as if calling his bluff, then continued. "If you actually, you know, did a bloody thing, you could probably get her to wrap those long legs around your back and smother you to death."

Walker's pen stopped. Even Mazuri looked like he regretted that. "Okay, that sounded more enticing and less embarrassing in my head, sir."

_I may need to start requiring permission to speak freely like this. _"I see…" he said, stretching out that last syllable.

Mazuri looked back at the two bikini-clad women, than at Walker in his Hawaiian shirt, covered in flowers and palm tree leaves, and put a hand on his superior officer's shoulder. "How about 'She's very sexy, a clearly superior pilot, and way out of your league,'?" he asked.

Walker pointed his pen at Mazuri, indicating approval, before returning to his letter.

A defeated A. K. Mazuri walked down towards the ocean, stopping at Nabiki and Emi's towel.

"'Afternoon ladies," he said, endeavoring to sound as though he wasn't implying anything from it. Neither responded—Nabiki just kept eating small snacks from a box near her head, while Emi didn't stir at all. She might have been asleep, for all he could tell.

He decided to risk it. "Flight Lieutenant, ma'am, would you mind if I had a word with your staff officer?"

Again, no response. Nabiki rolled her eyes, tied her top closed again and stood up.

"What is it, Mazuri?" she asked. "I can't help you that Dac's an idiot."

Immediately, he raised a finger and gestured at Walker about twenty meters away, and the two walked off, parallel to the beach.

"First off, they did good work with your eye," he began. "I can't even tell."

"I haven't heard that one before," she sneered sarcastically.

Walker the conversation from a distance and reached into his back pocket, taking out his sketch notebook. Flipping through the pages, he stopped at one with Emi standing at ease in her dress uniform. At an empty spot to the left of the sketch, he began quickly doodling Emi lying on her back on the beach, over the line he'd just written: 0_8/07/195, Kaliningrad. _He didn't pay much attention to the aircraft passing overhead.

_We can only determine so much when they know they're being monitored. _Officer Cadet Edward Parsons sat in a converted utility helicopter, painted in old white and blue _Speciali _livery, wearing a smooth but bulk helmet-mounted display which hid both his eyes. It was synced to a small camera pod on the underside of the helicopter—when he turned his head, it turned, as it did when he moved the small controller he held in his right hand.

"I wish we were down there," the pilot, another young officer cadet from the Military Commissariat, remarked enviously.

"Why, so I can watch you through a high-powered Carl Zeiss lens?" Parson asked, stretching his arms in the cabin.

He sighed and gently leaned on the cyclic stick. "If it meant sitting on a beach, enjoying free drinks with attractive comrades in bikinis, I wouldn't mind."

"You can't drink," he pointed out.

"Thanks for reminding me," he yelled back at him. "I can fly a military helicopter over a beach full of soldiers for a covert security op, but I can't order a goddamn martini," he mumbled more quietly.

"Funny how that works," Parsons mumbled himself. He scanned along multiple officers, stopping only long enough for identify them with their service photographs.

"What about you sir? I thought leave observation was just busy work for the trainees," he shouted again, pulling back on the collective pitch control.

_Sometimes we get pulled off important tasks. It gives us perspective. Or something. So they say. _"I might not be fifteen, but I'm still waiting for my wings," he said out loud. "If you wanted a fast career path, you shouldn't have picked the commissariat, Mr. Woźniak. If you went into the mobile suit troops, you might already be a P/O, enjoying soda on the beach. Assuming you weren't flunked or KIA."

The pilot smirked. "Not like they don't know we're up here. Military personnel have no expectation of privacy, it's in the goddamn manual."

"Now you're starting to sound like a political officer," he said, adjusting his headset. He noticed a Japanese F/O crossing the beach by herself, approaching a sitting officer.

Walker immediately noticed something was blocking out the sun: looking up, he spotted a short, very slender woman standing immediately in front of him with dark hair in a bob haircut longer at the sides than in the back.

"Flight Officer Tsujimoto," he said, folding his letter neatly and putting in a pocket. It would be scanned for transmission over the Network anyway.

He couldn't see her expression thanks to the darkness he was cast in.

"You can call me Nabiki," she told him.

"Nabiki, is there something I can do for you?" he said, shifting himself out of the shadow. Walker saw she was wearing a black two-piece with 'OZ' printed in white letters on the right half of the top, under a blue windbreaker. He didn't even know one could buy such a thing.

"Would you mind walking with me, Sir Oswald?"

"Just Walker," he said, getting up.

The two strolled up the beach, past a group of students. "I'd like to ask…" he began.

"It's a clone, not a prosthetic," she finished for him. "I'm still having some trouble seeing out of it, but then again, I'm a flight officer, not a flying officer."

"Of course. What's this about?"

"Walker, how old are you?" she asked.

This caught him off-guard. "I'll be twenty in January," he told her.

She raised an eyebrow at him, as though suspecting he was lying. "And would you agree that, younger age aside, you're a less skilled pilot than Flight Lieutenant Ogasawara?"

He respected her directness. "I think that's fairly evident from the past, yes," he said, with no remorse in his voice.

"And how tall would you say you are?"

"One-hundred and seventy-eight centimeters. Approximately." He was rounded up a bit.

"Approximately?" she echoed. "Right, you're an engineer."

The two kept walking up the stairs to the boardwalk. "And?" he asked finally.

She slammed her palm down against the wood guardrail. "Try and move my arm."

He stared at her. "Excuse me?"

"This is not some sort of entrapment scheme, Walker, just try and move my arm at the wrist."

Walker stared at her suspiciously. Just by looking at her, he could tell she'd propped herself up against her arm in such a way, at such an angle, that mechanically it was very inefficient for him to try and move her from that point. She cocked her head, as if waiting, before he reached forward with one hand, gingerly grasped her wrist, and began pushing, then pulling, her arm. When it became apparent he was struggling with one hand, he used both of them, only to have Nabiki abruptly release her arm and nearly send him flying over the edge of the boardwalk. He managed to recover, halfway over the rail, puling himself up and stared at her, more than a little annoyed.

"Exactly how was this not an embarrassing prank?" he asked. _And you have quite the air of superiority about you too, _he thought to himself.

She raised her right index finger at him. "You're not exactly a macho man, Walker, and I don't think some drunk university students care that you'd needed both arms to do that. But you've just…demonstrated…that you're younger, shorter, and weaker than Emichan."

_I had some suspicions that was the case_, he thought. Nabiki watched as he picked himself up and smoothed out the creases in his shorts as though in uniform. "What _exactly_ was the point of all this, Nabiki?"

"If you're pursing Emichan, you're going to have to make some concerted effort. She's gotten the eye of taller, handsomer, more skilled, and _stronger _officers,"

"…I could have moved your arm if you hadn't yanked it away like that," he mumbled, still a little flustered. He stood close to her, indicating his height advantage over _her _at least. "You know, I can't help but imagine this would be the perfect opportunity for one of those fabled officer's slaps, if it weren't for the fact we're both out of uniform, thereby ruining the effect."

She turned to the ocean and feet firmly planted on the boardwalk, stretched her arms over her head and little bounced a few times as she flexed. "Don't act like you're some sort of wilting flower, Walker. If you've _died _before, this shouldn't upset you."

_There's that sarcasm again… _He decided to hit back. "Seeing how I've politely answered your questions, I'd like you to return the courtesy: why are you in OZ?" he asked.

With her arms she sat herself up on the flat wooden guard rail. "Hmmm?"

"You heard me," he repeated. "I doubt you did it out of loyalty to F/L Ogasawara. There must be some reason here. Sneering sarcasm aside, you're an attractive woman with a pretty face and very nice legs for your height. So why OZ?"

She seemed almost flattered by his observation, though he hadn't intended it to be flattering. She leaned back on the rail and made the universal 'money' sign with one hand, the other keeping her balance. "Money, my dear Walker," she told him.

"You must be joking."

She leaned towards him, taller thanks to her seat. "I have a widower father who doesn't work, two unmarried sisters and a failing training school with few students, most of whom don't pay tuition. OZ is pulling my family out of chronic debt and allowing us to remain in our nation's middle-class."

He expected her to lie, but didn't get impression from her answer. And once again, he was talking to some woman's chest. "I see," he hissed.

"Now if you'd like to know how I, a young woman with no military background and no flying hours, got into the Specials, you can ask me some other day if you work of the nerve."

"I'll be sure to remember that," he said, turning away from her and watching people pass on the boardwalk.

She gave a laugh, as though she'd offended him. "You need to remember to breath, Walker."

"I _am_ breathing," he countered, running a hand through his hair.

"Then here, a reward for remembering," she said. Catching him unawares, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her chest against his back and blew into his ear. Walker nearly jumped out of his sandals when she released him, and missed his chance to yell at her when she flung herself over the rail, flipped in midair and landed like a gymnast on the sand below, arms apart and feet together. She even did a theatrical bow up at him.

It took a split-second to realize she'd actually landed wearing _his _ugly shirt, lie some sort of mocking trophy. _I assume she learned that from Emi. _"You know, F/O, I could accuse you of sexual harassment. And _win_," he said, his voice becoming even and controlled.

"An officer with your credentials? You certainly could. Tomorrow. But you see, Walkerchan, today, we're not officers. We're a bunch of kids running around, half-naked, on a beach in Europe." She made a 'cute' gesture with one hand. "Bye-bye!"

She walked back down to the beach, leaving Walker by himself on the boardwalk. _What was the point of all that, again? That I don't understand women? _He scoffed. _If I'm lucky, just the crazy, sarcastic, money-hungry ones. _

**II**

Colonel Bundt sat in the dimly lit operations room inside the headquarters at Ürümqi, surrounded by his chief of staff and his top field commanders, including Major Nanaki. Despite the Alliance Brigadier General's uniform he wore, they still referred to him by his old rank, something he didn't let bother him.

Nanaki used a long pointer to indicate spots on the digital map built into the central table. "From our observational data, we believe the local Long March guerillas are headquartered in this region, to the northwest.

The light from the tabletop dimmed. All four wore immaculate Alliance uniforms. Bundt stood at the end of the table, white-gloved hands together, but said nothing. Another officer intervened. "I see. We finally know where they're hiding. But now they have a Gundam."

"The Gundams are incredibly powerful. Any engagement would risk serious harm to our forces," Nanaki elaborated.

Bundt finally spoke. "Perhaps we should approach OZ for additional assistance, organize a joint attack."

Nanaki struck his fist against the counter. "I completely disagree, Colonel. That would practically be asking OZ to establish itself in _our _nation."

"Exactly! What about our self-government?"

"We have to show the populous that we're still in control!"

"Colonel, do you still feel this is the wisest option?" Nanaki asked.

Bundt spoke again—he was a man of few words—sounding grave. "Major Nanaki, I understand your concern but I wouldn't want to do anything that would risk losing even one of you elite soldiers."

"I appreciate that, sir, but we've all already sworn to give our lives for this nation," Nanaki countered.

"That's right, Colonel!"

"We have to protect this nation by ourselves, that's what makes us independent!"

Begrudgingly, Bundt took his hands away from his chin sat up. "Very well. I see your determination, and we'll wipe out those guerillas with our own forces." He rose from the seat, putting his hands behind his back. "For our motherland!" he declared triumphantly, in lieu of 'God Save the Alliance'. As the other officers joined him, Nanaki wiped his sweating brow with a gloved hand.

**III**

Miyamoto Yoshitsune arrived in Haren, outside Brussels in the Kingdom of Belgium, with six OZ-07AMS 'Aries' mobile suits aboard a strategic airlifter, belonging the 7th Order of the Red Banner Airborne Division.

"Yoshitsune! Welcome back to civilization," a local crew chief announced, shaking the younger man's hand as he disembarked from the aircraft.

"Civilization, huh?" Yoshitsune replied.

"Machines look good."

"They didn't get much use. The Seventh Airborne was ground bound, 'logistical issues'." He frowned. "Code for 'fuel shortage'. The Thirteenth just deployed in reserve at Jiuquan, they better not have the same problems."

The crew chief sneered. "So they were using Leos? Bet those boys and girls in the Seventh were left running around on the ground like headless chickens, eh?"

Yoshitsune shot him a glance. "No, not really. They took it like champs. Nineteen kills, three losses."

"…right."

Yoshitsune exited the large hangar and nearly fell into the trenches that crossed the edges of the airfield. Following them with his eyes, he could see that they extended into Haren, where entire city blocks were still in ruin. Yoshitsune had visited Haren as a child, ten years ago—ithe difference was jarring.

"Headquarters of the Alliance West European Military District," the chief told him. "Before that, NATO. Fortress Haren. Now look at it."

He glanced at him. "So this is civilization? If so, you can keep it."

**IV**

Stretching along the banks of the scenic Weser River, Stadland Castle's typically empty grounds were already patrolled by large numbers of armored cars and uniformed personnel of the OZ Internal Army, with a secure barrier constructed on both sides of the river, extending from the small river island of Strohauser in the south to Esenhamm in the north.

Joining the military presence was the large personal staff of His Grace Lord Dermail Catalonia, Duke of Liechtenstein and chairman of the Romefeller Foundation. English-speaking civilian officials in brightly dressed European-style dresses and coats supervised the preparations for the annual Foundation Summer Conference, planned for 11 July, AC 195.

In one of the grand dining rooms in the north wing, a ranking butler on Dermail's staff used careful calligraphy to label the nametags by hand, reading them out loud in the process.

"Colonel…Treize…Khushrenada…" he said to himself, before placing the starched paper tag on the table.

A passing footman pushing a cart full of polished silverware that cost as much small aircraft glanced at the nametag. "Colonel, and not 'count', Mr. Carson?"

"That's right, William."

"That seems a little odd."

"Well, his Excellency is rarely seen out of his uniform, isn't he? It's natural that he'd prefer his military title."

A younger housemaid, in a black-and-white dress, glanced over the footman's shoulder. "Well, I think if were a true gentleman, that wouldn't be the case."

"That's quite enough, Ms. Anna," the butler chided him as he took a blank tag and began writing on it. "_You_ can rest assure that his Grace's nephew is a man of great distinction and honor, as all officers of OZ are."

"Is he even really a colonel though?" another footman asked, resting his feet briefly in the corner. "The Alliance no longer exists, OZ saw to that, didn't they?"

"From what I understand, active duty personnel retain the rank they had before the Revolution. It just happens that no officers outranking his Excellency are still in service," the butler explained. "And don't you have some chairs to check?"

The other footman groaned softly before rising to his feet. "All the leaders on Earth are coming to this castle, and we're still worrying about chairs…"

"Yes we are, Thomas. Yes we are."

**V**

In the late afternoon, Walker related his earlier awkward encounter to Kanna, who stifled her barely controlled laughter until Walker gave her direct permission to laugh, and she did abundantly and loudly. The two sat in the second floor lounge of the beachfront hotel booked by OZ for the visiting officers, with Walker glancing around to see if there were any other officers present to enjoy his embarrassment.

"It's not that funny, Kanna," Walker said, holding a multi-language menu in his hands and looking around for a waiter.

"It's not just that sir," she explained, practically in tears. "You know, sir, you know _three _Japanese women, all OZ officers, and they're pretty different, huh?" She resumed guffawing, practically rolling around in her seat.

"I suppose it's a helpful reminder of the limited utility of a word like 'Japanese'," he mumbled, waving down a bow tie-wearing waiter.

"Now you see why I identify as Ryukyuan," she told him.

"Can I just get a Tom Collins, please?"

"And I read that there are _three million _self-identified Japanese in South America, plus another million in North America…" Kanna continued.

Walker took his cocktail as soon as it came and finished it in a single, extended gulp before handing the glass directly back to the waiter. "Keep them coming, please."

Kanna looked at her commanding officer, the smile leaving her face. "_Taichō_, is there something on your mind?"

"You mean, besides my apparently hilarious social awkwardness during downtime?"

She nodded rapidly.

"No, not really. I hate the beach," he said, as another Tom Collins arrived. He paused half-way through his second drink and looked at Kanna. "You know, I didn't always have this problem. A year ago, strange women from other units didn't just walk up to me and make me feel like a fool. This is a new development for me."

Kanna took this as an indirect question, and propped her arms on her legs. "Well, what changed in that year?"

"Well, obviously, I was promoted."

"'Course, that's a new development, isn't it?"

_And then there was Rani, of course. _"Why…why am I talking to you about this, again?"

"Huh?"

"Why are we even having this conversation?"

"Because this is what people do?" Kanna asked, confused. "People who are friends or comrades are…"

"I disagree. The healthy thing to do with humiliation is to bottle it up and never discuss it in the first place, right?"

Kanna cocked her head and shrugged.

"Thank you," he said. "I never had a chance to ask: how was Okinawa?"

"Really nice. Perfect beach weather, really, it's a shame I got called back early." She stretched her arms over her back, muscles flexing under her tank top. "You know, I'd never been to a beach in Russia. I didn't think they'd be like this, of course, and they're really nice, but the Baltic Sea is nothing like the Philippine Sea."

"It wouldn't be. And your family?"

Kanna seemed to perk up, and reached into a hidden pocket in her pants and pulled out her Korean-made mobile, which she held towards him. On the screen were more than a dozen men and women ranging from teenagers to the elderly. Kanna stood in the middle, among four other men and women about the same age who most closely resembled her: they had the same complexion, stood almost as tall, and one even had the same color of dyed hair.

"There they are: the Kaneshiro Family. And the Kaneshiro-Taira and Kaneshiro-Oyagi, anyway."

"That's a beautiful family. I take it your with your brothers and sisters in the middle?"

She grinned. "You got it." Then her smile vanished. "Wait...oh, very clever, Taichō. Very clever."

"What's so clever?" he asked innocuously.

**VI**

Squadron Commander Donovan of OZ's 13th Guards Royal Victorian Surface Division looked over the dawn redwoods as the helicopter he was riding landed in the small clearing. Just a few dozen kilometers outside Ürümqi, a secret staging area with two Aries flights had been established, deep in Alliance territory.

"_Are you sure you want to go through with this, Michael?" _On the other end was Lieutenant Colonel Chuang of the General Staff.

He put a hand on his headset. "No, I am."

The other voice sighed. "_It should be me out there."_

Donovan smiled. "Like hell it should. What's the point of flying a lieutenant colonel a few thousand kilometers so he can risk his neck in an Aries in a high-risk op? Because he speaks Chinese?"

Chuang chuckled softly on the other end. "_I suppose you're right there, Michael._"

"Besides, I'd never hear the end of it from Wen. He's already pissed about having to promise helicopters for armed recon just to get Bundt to play ball. You know how he'd take it if anything happened to you?"

"_I guess I'm no longer allowed to be one of those lieutenant colonels who kicks ass out in the field._"

"We can't all be the Sun Queen," Donovan replied on his headset. "We've just set down."

"_Good luck out there, Donovan._"

The helicopter was surrounded by a number of camouflaged OZ-07AMS 'Aries', crouched on the ground. Donovan immediately disembarked, where he was greeted by a saluting flight officer. "Squadron Commander, welcome to Ürümqi. How is Jiuquan?"

"Dry and boring," Donovan replied, returning his salute. "Is everything set up?"

"Yes, sir. We're ready to leave immediately. The Ninety-First Heli is already deployed in the field."

"I don't envy them. Let's go, it's time to see if I remember my Aries training."

As usual, OZ's Aries units were famed for their rapid deployment: within a few minutes, six units were briefed and airborne, mounting chain guns and missile pods. Once in the air, they had the best view of the approaching advancing teams of OZ-06MS 'Leo' units of the Xinjiang Republican Guard as the descended on the guerilla staging area.

Long March guerillas scrambled about wildly on the ground. "It's the Provisional military! They're here and attacking!"

"Begin counterattack!" another Long Marcher shouted as the guerrillas dragged out their light rocket artillery by hand, outdated relics scrapped by the PLA decades earlier.

"_Looks like the helicopters are going in first._"

"_Remember, boys, we're just here to observe pending further orders. Those poor bastards in the helicopters have to do the charity work. Who's leading the Leo unit?_"

"_A Major Nanaki, apparently. According to Yuen, the heli commander, he's actually a decent enough fellow._"

_I'm sure he is. _"Well, if all they have is that, this'll be a cakewalk." Donovan fiddled with his communications computer. "Remember, we've got the Alliance's frequencies, let's pay attention."

"_Word from the attack helicopters, anti-mobile missiles confirmed!" _

Donovan heard a voice he assumed was Nanaki's. "_Affirmative, we'll begin with our rocket artillery barrage, then advance with our own mobile suit troops._"

Just behind Donovan's mobile suits, four modern MRLS units opened with their own heavy barrage, quickly obliterating much of the Long Marcher's heavy equipment. What was left of it turned its guns on the helicopters, already deep in their territory, with limited success. The black gunships responded with precise autocannon and missile fire, strafing the base interior.

Nanaki's unit slowly advanced. "OZ Heli unit, where's that Gundam? Locate the Gundam immediately!"

In his two-man gunship, Flight Officer Yuen squeezed his trigger, firing a barrage into a camouflaged mobile suit. As the clouds moved above, he could make out the details visually: the Gundam-05.

"Bianzhong Leader, this is Yuen. We've located the Gundam!" They put another four rockets into the Gundam, with no response. "It's not moving, uploading video feed on datalink."

Nanaki watched the video feed. "That camo net…it's unmanned." He changed the channel. "Colonel Bundt, the Gundam appears unmanned. We can win this battle!"

"_I see. The main force will join you shortly._"

While Nanaki's force advanced on the Gundam, the MRLS units were adjusting their aim for the Gundam, just as Dononvan dragged his aiming reticle onto them and opened firing with rockets. With a few seconds, all four rocket launchers were destroyed.

"We're dropping the act, Yuen, get the hell out of there!" Donovan ordered, as the Aries mobile suits broke formation.

Nanaki watched in horror. "Colonel Bundt! OZ just obliterated our artillery! They're attacking our forces!"

A chilling response came back. "_That's General Bundt, Major Nanaki. And OZ _is _part of our forces! Their support troops are the only chance our nation has to resist a Gundam. But some of our own men, alienated by this, have deserted to join the Long March,_" Bundt explained calmly.

"_Sir, what are you trying to say?_"

"_That is exactly what happened. I know OZ is the only thing that can guarantee peace in our nation. The citizens feel the same way._"

"_That's absurd! There's no way the people would tolerate OZ's rule!_"

"_OZ has already demonstrated their respect for self-rule. And of course, they'll keep me on as _head of state. _Thank you, Major." _Donovan quietly listened as he strafed the Republican Guard Leos as they tried to return fire. He could only imagine the betrayal Nanaki was feeling.

"_Damn it, _Colonel _Bundt! Can't you think of anything but your own rank?_" Just as Nanaki snapped, Donovan dropped his Aries directly in front of him from behind, just a few meters away, and opened fire. The power of the chain rifle's APFSDS ammunition at point-blank range literally tore the mobile suit apart as it stood.

A Long March missile scored a lucky hit on one of the wing engine pods of an Aries, and it crash-landed into the ground. The guerilla manning the unit congratulated himself and aimed for another shot, just as the wounded Aries raised rose to its feet and obliterated the missile position with a single burst.

"_Raptor Actual, this is Raptor 1-3. I'm down but unwounded. Lost my port wing engine, but my power plant's still good. Requesting cover while I lift off!_"

"Raptor 1-2, cover 1-3! Everyone else, keep up the pressure! Ignore the guerillas and remember our objective: destroy the core of the Xinjiang Republican Guard," Donovan yelled over the channel.

"_Affirmative, Raptor Actual!_"

"_Raptor Actual, this is Yuen. I'm getting movement towards the ground…I think someone just got into the Gundam_!"

The warning shattered Donovan's focus. "…no…" He turned his mobile suit just in time to see Gundam-05 turn, discard its netting and fire its vernier thrusters.

**VII**

While Walker lounged outside in Svetlogorsk, something particularly unusual happened: Ogasawara Emi sought him out, wanting to speak with him. He was rather surprised; Emi was still wearing her swimsuit, but her hair was thoroughly soaked and she wore a small wet towel around her waist that almost went down to her knees. Combined with her appearance, he assumed she'd received urgent news and was relaying it to him. Instead, she just wanted to apologize for Nabiki's teasing, as she put it.

It was more than a little embarrassing as well, but Walker was just relieved that it wasn't something urgent. And he admitted to himself that he didn't dislike the opportunity to speak to Emi.

"So you were expecting bad news?"

"Sort of. I'd heard there were deep operations going on in Xinjiang, and I have an old friend who's in Utah, which is apparently becoming a real meat grinder."

"I understand," she said. The two were walking back from the boardwalk, Emi still dripping.

"Since we're being candid with one another, I don't think you should encourage her like that. Officer Tsujimoto, I mean."

"Like how?" she asked, as the two sat down in front of OZ's hotel.

"Well, for starters, you could stop wearing bikinis a size too small on beaches during leave," he offered.

She looked down at herself than at him. With a straight face, she replied, "It's my size by my height."

Walker turned in his chair to the left and, expression unchanging, formed a fist with his left hand and gently but firmly struck himself in the forehead three times. Emi decided to change the subject.

"Nice place isn't it, Kaliningrad?" she pointed out.

"Very nice," he said in response, not looking at her.

"Makes Mirny look like Hà Giang."

"Hà Giang?"

"Northeastern Vietnam. I was born near there, in a mountain town. One of the few country towns that still exist in Southeast Asia."

"I see," Walker said, turning back to her. He smoothed a few of the creases in his Hawaiian shirt. "I take it your parents were immigrants?"

Emi stretched her arms ahead of her. "That's what I've been told."

_Told? _Walker turned in the direction of an approaching uniformed OZ officer cadet with a satchel bag over his shoulder. He saluted quickly at the table before addressing them. "Flight Lieutenants Ogasawara and Walker?"

They both nodded. He was a military courier. He opened the satchel and presented them each with a sealed dark blue enveloped with their names and serial numbers printed in white. He clicked his heels together and left without a further word.

"Courier boys in this day and age," Walker observed.

"Tell me about it," she replied, taking her own envelope and sticking it underneath one of her top's straps. "Walker."

He nodded back at her as she turned to leave, and shortly made his way back into the hotel. In the lounge, as expected, he found the three other members of his team: Mazuri reading a magazine, Dac watching television and Kanna having some tea.

"Don't everyone get up at once," he told them as he sat down near Kanna, envelope in hand. When all parties were in civilian dress, military etiquette was often abandoned. He tore the envelope open and emptied it in his hands, revealing one piece of paper. It was printed in the stationary of the OZ Space Forces, with its emblem printed in black ink at the top: the coned-shape armored helm of a medieval European knight.

"They're our orders," Walker said, pointing out the obvious.

"Well?"

Walker scanned the paper, then read it aloud out loud. "Dated 10 July, After Colony 195. By order of the General Staff of the Order of the Zodiac, Squadrons 1, 3, 4 and 6 of the Ninth Company of the Seventh Airborne Division are being transferred to OZ Space Forces based out of Space Station _Barge._ All active pilots in those squadrons are ordered to complete a one-week space combat refresher course, to be evaluated by the General Staff of Space Forces, and are granted leaves of absence until notice of their evaluation."

Walker folded the letter. "It looks like we're remaining on leave."

"Woohoo!" Dac blurted out, loudly. The other three pilots stared at him, as he shrank back into his seat.

"Didn't we already complete the basic space combat course?" Kanna asked.

"We all did, back at Lake Victoria, as cadets. You couldn't graduate without it."

"I remember that! Who said I didn't?" Dac said, loudly and conspicuously.

"What about you, Mazuri?" Walker asked.

"I took the course back in 'Ninety Three, at Lake Victoria as well. Only time I've been there," Mazuri said, putting his hands together. "A one week refresher course? How long is the normal Taurus pilot training course?"

"Ninety days. It's a three month course for green officer cadets who just passed mobile suit basic," Walker said. "I guess the General Staff figures we've been fighting on Earth long enough that space won't be a problem." From his tone of voice, it wasn't immediately apparent if he was being sarcastic or not.

"That's a comforting thought. Three months for new Taurus pilots, one week for everyone else with a combat record."

The four sat in silence for a few moments. "So now what?" Dac finally asked.

"Do whatever you'd like. You're on leave until further notice." Walker sat up from his chair, followed by his three subordinates, and crossed his arms. While he stood there, he wasn't aware of the hardworking staff finishing their lunch in in Bremen before continuing their preparations for the coming conference, while in China, OZ pilots burned to death alongside the Xinjiang Republican Guard inside the wreckage of their war machines.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note:<strong>_

_No worries. This is not becoming a harem fanfic. This is becoming a 'protagonist is endlessly teased by his attractive peers because he has no chance with them and is in that awkward stage of life' kind of fic, unfortunately. As Eva would observe, and given the reality of military life in _our _world, a certain amount of uncomfortable, and hopefully hilarious sexual tension inevitable. _

_I've been thinking of a few things—namely, retconning Walker's nickname, Christopher, out of the writing. That's a hangover of the old _Soldier of OZ_, wherein Walker didn't have a given name. Likewise, I'm in the process of composing the Battle of Barge. It's possible that I might make it a separate short story 'canon' with this, but it's probably not long enough to warrant it. This is the first chapter I'm publishing from my new, tiny apartment (and when I say new, I mean new-first person to live in this unit, hah!), and I felt bad delaying any further. _

_Some teasers in the meantime: Walker meets Relena Peacecraft, however briefly. Look forward to it. And yes, I am a fan of Masterpiece's _Downton Abbey.


	20. The Grandeur of Romefeller, I

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 20 **– The Grandeur of Romefeller, I****

Vice Admiral Admiral Eleanor Arroway's Taskforce, eleven ex-Alliance cruisers and frigates led by the EASFS _Calypso, _hull designation BC-101, had run as far as they could, in the direction of the fourth Lagrange point. Being in space, it was not a case of "go no farther" so much as "go no faster." Ironically, it was the older _Los Angeles-_class fast cruisers and _Berlin-_class escort carriers that had a hard time keeping up with the much newer _Titan-_class battle cruisers, and all the ships suffered from the same issue: the fast they went, the harder they were to maneuver out of fire. While they might have limitless accelerative capabilities—ignoring the finite lifespan and fuel of their fusion power plants—they had already reached the point of diminishing returns, as the pursing taskforce matched their speed and every maneuver.

"Ma'am, we're still a hundred thousand kilometers from the nearest L4 colony," a bridge officer announced, sweat visible on her brow.

"The enemy?"

"Closing at just under eleven thousand, with three percent higher acceleration." A screen marked the distance to the enemy lead ship as being almost 11,000 meters.

Her executive officer stood near her. "Admiral, your orders?"

Feeling even older than she was, Arroway paused to think, when something outside in space made her decision for her. Kuznetsov's taskforce, now under OZ control, had been firing beam weaponry at them during the whole pursuit, for more than a day according to the clock on the main screen. Due to the speeds and distances involved, however, they had not actually _hit_ anything. Until now.

In the silence of space, the _Los Angeles-_class faster cruiser _San Diego _was struck just below the engine bank by a burst of concentrated ship-to-ship fire that was lucky enough to hit. At first, all it seemed to do was knock free part of the engine nozzles and cause a few internal fires, but the actual effect being apparent when the glowing engine bank flickered and died. A second later, it lit up again, just as the entire cruiser was ripped apart with an explosion.

"Telemetry!" she yelled.

"Main cannon shot from the _Callisto_, it must have struck the torpedo magazine near the reactor! The _San Diego…_is lost!"

"Nearest ship is the _Hamburg!_"

"Tell the _Hamburg _to sweep for lifeboats and shuttles, have F-2240 cover it!" she ordered, turning around and raising one hand as she paced towards the back of the bridge. "Bring the rest of the taskforce about, all hands to battle stations!"

"Yes ma'a!m" her XO shouted. "All gunners, project anti-aircraft screen and await further instructions."

"Yes, sir!" The armored plates above the bridge windows descended, as the view was replaced by digital displays. Battle station alarms aboard the _Calypso _blared behind her and she felt the cruiser's maneuver thrusters turning the whole vessel about to ensure both its armor and weapons were facing the enemy force. Thanks to Newtonian physics, they would continue in the direction of L4, but to accelerate in that direction required the ship be pointed away from the enemy, and at its most vulnerable.

"Admiral, ma'am, all MS teams report ready to deploy."

"All units deploy, tell them to screen for enemy units and avoid their cruisers. Are our primary beam cannons online?"

"Yes ma'am!"

"Fire control, get me a solution on the _Callisto_, I want to blast that arrogant bitch out of space," she said angrily. Vulgarity was a rarity for her. _Sorry, Yuri. I hope you know I don't blame you for this._

"Aye aye, ma'am!"

"Enemy squadrons are moving into position ma'am ma'am. Counting…thirty-two mobile suits, ferried by the _Callisto, Europa, Iapetus, Rhea _and _Mimas._"

"That seems very low, ma'am," Arroway's XO muttered. "They could be carrying as many as eighty-four if they filled all their hangars. Even if they weren't all the new Taurus units..."

"Let's hope they're not," she cut him off quietly.

Outside in space, a single royal blue OZ-06SMS 'Space Leo' stood on outside hull of the EASFS _Callisto_, armed with a powerful anti-ship beam cannon and a shoulder shield. Behind the _Callisto _and the other cruisers, twenty back OZ-12SMS 'Taurus' machines in flight mode were being towed via umbilical cords. The Space Leo flashed pinged its IFF and flashed its camera floodlight, bent its legs and launched itself by its vernier rockets. The Tauruses disconnected their tethers, and formed formations of three.

Lieutenant Colonel Soris Armonia was grinning in her cockpit. "Looks like the Alliance is tired of running."

One of the Taurus commanders was on her channel. "_Chasing them for half a day is more an inconvenience than anything. And unlike ourselves, they can't refuel or refit easily_."

"Acknowledged. Taurus commanders, target the picket ships, then move onto the cruisers."

"_Affirmative! Looks like their frigates are moving to cover their wounded, moving to strike_"

She squinted at the primary tactical display. "Negative, squadron commander. Looks like it might be a trap, they've already screened for survivors. Take vector three-six-eight instead, and watch for a flanking maneuver." Punching rapidly on the keys near the MFD, she inputted an attack vector that moved around empty space, even if it did put them in the range of the enemy command ship. "Forget the ships, let's see if we can do this without losing any pilots."_  
><em>

"_And you, ma'am?_"

"_What do you think? __I'll take the _Calypso_. I'll enjoy destroying what hopes they have left._" The Leo charged into the crossfire from the enemy warships, using precisely timed thruster bursts to narrowly avoid beam fire. It took a few minutes to come within 1200 meters of the enemy flagship, but when she did, she burned retrograde for a few seconds before aiming the shoulder-carrier beam cannon. With careful aiming, she fired a single blast in the direction of its forward sensor array. The old beam cannon, the largest that could be carried on a Leo, produced a dim energy burst that paled in comparison to power output of the Taurus' beam cannon, but could still puncture the armor housing around the sensor array, above and behind the command tower.

Just as she scored the hit, a small point-defense beam just forward of the sensor array turned to face her. In a second it she was staring down its barrels and it fired at her machine, landing a glancing hit on the center torso. Soris shook inside the cockpit before regaining control and throwing her machine directly into the turret, knocking it out of alignment. Having come to a halt, she fired the cannon point-blank at the turret, destroying it, before firing another shot at the sensor array.

"_Commander, are you all right?_"

Soris' head was swimming for a few seconds. "I should have worn a normal suit," she muttered, watching two more OZ Leos get caught in the anti-aircraft fire screen be torn to pieces and exploded. _  
><em>

"_Colonel, please respond!_"

"_I'm fine, just hurry up with those picket ships_." Her machine was vulnerable, even if the other cruisers couldn't risk firing at her for fear of hitting the flagship. She discarded the beam rifle and withdrew one of her two beam sabers.

Beneath her, the _Calypso_'s bridge crew could extrapolate what Soris was attempting.

"Activate the auxiliary bridge! All crew, evacuate!" Arroway's XO ordered.

"Repeat, one mobile suit has broken through our perimeter!"

"Direct hit on the _Callisto_!"

"Keep firing!" the admiral ordered. "All torpedo tubes, fire! Target, the _Callisto_!"

"Torpedoes are away!"

Far forward of the bridge, each of the _Calypso'_s four forward torpedo tubes each opened and fired a single nuclear-tipped torpedo, driven by a gas core reactor rocket engine. The bridge tower creaked loudly as the Leo crawled forward on its arms and legs.

"Admiral, we have to evacuate now!" the XO shouted.

"Just wait!" she shouted back as she watched the torpedoes accelerated at speeds many times what the cruisers were capable of, in the direction of Kuznetsov's flagship. She was about to turn away when a flight of Taurus, still in fighter mode, closed in on the torpedoes and fired a beam barrage at them, immediately destroying two of them and causing the remaining two to break off under manual guidance. Of those, one was caught in the direct path of one of the _Callisto_'s primary turrets and was vaporized.

Barely getting past point-defense fire, the remaining torpedo slammed into the starboard side of the _Callisto _a few seconds later, obliterating one of its primary turrets in a blinding atomic blast but otherwise leaving the ship intact. Arroway watched, disheartened, as emergency bulkheads sealed up the destroyed decks on what should have been the flagship of a unified Alliance taskforce.

"Looks like nothing's working today, is it, Arroway?" Soris asked as she plunged her beam saber into the hull beneath her, watching as the magnetic field-enclosed energy loop slowly but steadily began melting and shearing a hole in the armor plating. She knew she was cutting through when she saw the power conduits underneath the outside plating explode.

"Explosion detected on the _Calypso_'s bridge!" a bridge officer on the _Callisto _announced. Even while he still wore his Alliance uniform, his ship was fighting for its survival, wiping out any doubts he had about questioning his OZ commander.

"Primary starboard turret destroyed, decks eight through seventeen reporting bulkheads sealed, ma'am. Our anti-aircraft screen has been reduced by thirty percent."

In the middle of the bridge, Flight Officer Luna Armonoia dramatically swept a gloved hand across the field of stars projected on the armored shutters in front of her. "Order Spearhead and Trinity flights to break the perimeter and directly target the _Calypso_'s auxiliary bridge. Do not allow it to re-position for another volley! Fire control?"

"Torpedo tubes three, four, five and eight are ready to launch, ma'am."

"What is the ETA on the Taurus troops on the enemy flagship's point-defense guns?"

"Forty seconds."

"Fire all three missiles in twenty seconds."

"Aye aye, skipper, I mean, yes ma'am!" the Alliance officer sputtered.

Six Tauruses fired a withering barrage of fire on one of the _Berlin_-class escort carriers, setting the bridge aflame from the inside. Passing it once more, they broke off and turned towards a nearby frigate, narrowly dodging long, wide beams from the main guns of the _Hyperion_. Those same shots struck the side of the _Danzig_, right in a section exposed by an earlier explosion, before tearing straight through the escort carrier. Its fusion reactor emitted a blinding flash before the whole ship exploded, showering the nearby _Ganymede_-class cruiser with burning wreckage. With camera magnification, Luna could see largely intact chunks of space fighters and even a violet Space Leo thrown against the hull of the _Europa_, breaking into pieces.

"The _Danzig…_is lost, ma'am."

Behind Luna, four OZ marines somberly saluted the radioactive fireball that made up the remains of the _Danzig_. Luna was looking at something else.

"Where is that frigate going?"

"Ma'am, F-935 is heavily damaged and breaking formation," a tactical officer announced.

A trio of Pioneer Leos had managed to make it past F-935's scant point-defenses and were now raining beam fire down on its bow, joined by fire from the _Armstrong-_class frigate. It was attempting to withdraw, when a direct hit struck its keel and its engine bank died, leaving it drifting aimlessly. At the same time, one of the _Callisto_'s three remaining primary turrets scored a direct hit on the auxiliary bridge of the _Calypso_, burning it out from the outside. Abruptly, the _Calypso _went silent. Behind it, the _Hamburg _exploded when three nuclear missiles struck it simultaneously. Amid the carcasses of ships, fast-moving Taurus mobile suits darted about, showering Pioneer Leos with beam rifle fire that would either cripple or at least severely damage them in a single shot. The one exception was Soris, whose battle-scored royal blue Leo dove at the Pioneers with its lone beam saber, slashing them apart as they kept their eyes planted on the Taurii. She caught a Pioneer Leo unaware, slamming it against the Alliance Space Forces insignia on the side of the _Calypso _and planting a beam saber in its cockpit before pushing away.

**II**

After Colony 195. Among the major multinational political entities in Earth Sphere, organizations like the Romefeller and Barton Foundations are among the least understood. Even today, the origins of the powerful Romefeller Foundation are still surrounded in mystery and fantastical conspiracies among the general populace.

Officially, it claims to be among the first of the great foundations formed following the fall of capitalism at the end of the corporatist period and the beginning of the After Colony period. Many have suggested the Foundation's origins go back far earlier, claiming that, in some form or another, it has manipulated world affairs for centuries. Whatever the case, over generations it established itself as the strongest of the foundations on Earth or in space, even in the face of fierce competitions from the Barton and Yuy Foundations. Demonstrating its power, in the last century, the Foundation established its undeniable suzerainty over the German states, Austria, Bohemia, Switzerland, Belgium and North Italy.

In doing so, the Foundation ensured the existence of a number of economically powerful, politically uniform nations that bordered the political center: all deeply involved in international banking and agriculture, all officially parliamentary republics, all politically stable but relatively excluded from military affairs by strong pro-Alliance governments. There are two notable exceptions: the Seventh Republic of France, and the Fifth Polish Republic. Both nations have strong industrial bases, and both played a part in the colonization of Outer Space. With their neighbors, they form a buffer around the core of the Foundation.

It was the morning of the tenth of July, and Flight Lieutenant Walker had arrived in the Free City of Bremen, in the Kingdom of Saxony, in full uniform and luggage in hand. Since all operations for Squadron 1, 9th Company had been suspended, he'd taken the opportunity to attend the Foundation Summer Conference, scheduled to begin the next day. He walked passed a huge map of North Germany that lined the airport terminal waiting room as he cleared customs.

"Oswald Walker?"

"_Ja_," he nodded.

"Purpose of visit?"

"_Konferenz._" In case his uniform didn't give them away.

"Thank you, sir."

After checking in at a nearby hotel, Walker took a shuttle along the Weser to Romefeller Foundation's expansive grounds north of the city. The scenic castles were immediately identifiable by a number of decommissioned mobile suits, in OZ livery, fixed to pylons in front of the main grounds. There were an even greater number of active ground patrol units, OZ-06MS 'Leo', in cobalt blue, carefully forming an inner perimeter around the main complex. In the shadow of a tall Leo, he located a military office and checked in.

Local military offices were either hastily erected tents or some sort of prefabricated structure. In this case, it was the former. "Here for the conference?"

"Yes," he told the junior officer, presenting her with his ID, a small, black leather-bound book. She scanned it with a machine and logged his location before turning it to him.

"Enjoy your stay."

"Thank you," he said, turning to leave.

"Wait, Flight Lieutenant," the junior officer called out as he turned to leave. She looked up from her small flat screen computer in the military tent. "I'm seeing a short message left for you."

"From who?"

She squinted at the screen. "M.A.D.M.D.. It says to report to the Honor Guard headquarters, in the castle west wing."

"Understood." He turned from the tent and walked rapidly for about twenty meters before pulling up his cape and switching to a fast jog to where he'd parked his motorcycle. The Stadland Castle grounds were so huge that he actually needed his Armstrong MT500 to get around quickly, which he'd had shipped in a day earlier. He noisily drove to the west wing, to the arrangement of prefabricated buildings that housed the guard of honor barracks and a few adjacent offices.

After stowing his helmet, he smoothed out his uniform, adjusted his ceremonial saber, fixed his collar and entered the castle west wing. Now surrounded by other OZ officers and ornate furnishings, he spotted a ranking officer with a familiar bearded face, already engaged in a conversation, so he waited.

_Most of the OZ officers present are not spectators like me, but on active duty, providing security and the guard of honor. _Behind him, he heard a few communications officers at work.

"Twenty-Second Guards Leo, this is West Headquarters. I've just received confirmation: you'll have three machines on the banks of the Weser tomorrow in demonstration mode."

"_Acknowledged, West HQ. We'll be there._" Walker turned away just as the ranking officer was finishing his conversation.

"Squadron Commander Broden, Flight Lieutenant Walker reporting in at the Bremen Castle."

S/C Broden stared at Walker for a few seconds, running a hand through his beard before smiling. "If it isn't Oswald Walker? I didn't recognize you in that new uniform," he said with a grin. "It's been…two years?"

"Three years, sir."

Broden set down the folder her was reading, circled the desk that he was behind and gave Walker a strong smack on the shoulder. "We'll need to catch up, but in the meantime, His Excellency is expecting you."

Walker nodded and followed Broden's pointed finger into the next room. After entering, Walker saluted a second time. "Sir!"

"I thought you'd find your way to Bremen," Treize Khushrenada told him. He was standing at the other end of the room, in front of a projection screen that displayed periodically changing schematic diagrams.

Walker put his hands at his sides. "I tend to follow the business of the leadership, your Excellency."

"I can see that," he said with a smug grin, gesturing at him to come closer. Walker walked over to the expensive wooden desk, his hands now behind his back, and glanced around the office quickly.

"If you mind me asking, sir, where's Lady Une?"

"Leading our Outer Space initiative, he explained. "I've been learning how to take care of myself in the meantime," he told Walker self-deprecatingly.

Walker wasn't sure how to respond to that, so Treize continued. "Would you mind a short history lesson, Walker?"

"Not at all, sir."

"The Main Armaments Directorate spent decades making sure the Alliance military was armed, before the rise of the mobile suit. With the mobile suit, warfare had some individuality return to it, which was contrary to the Directorate's mindset. The Romefeller Foundation's humanist thought came into conflict with that, through OZ, and in the end, OZ won out."

Walker knew all of this, but he nodded politely anyway.

"It's good you joined this conference. Especially given that our friend Zechs Merquise hasn't accepted my invitation." Treize rose from his seat, keeping a hand on his chair. Walker didn't realize it, but Treize had studied his face for a reaction upon mentioning that particular name.

"If men like you and I were in OZ ten years ago, things would be quite different."

Walker gave a sort of nervous chuckle. "I'm flattered sir, but what do you mean?"

"This is the first Foundation summit since the end the Alliance. So while OZ has held the reigns of the Revolution, the powers that be have been positioning themselves for the game of the century."

_I suppose this is when you'd usually launch into a diatribe against the 'politicians' and 'schemers'. _Though Treize wasn't the usual type.

"Will his Grace be giving the keynote speech?"

"That honor's been given to me, actually."

"That's good to hear, sir. At least you'll have to chance to make your case." _It's common knowledge, at least in OZ, that Treize and his grand uncle don't see eye to eye on a few topics._

"Perhaps we're getting carried away," Treize told him, his tone suddenly changing. "Tell me, Baronet: what do you know about mobile dolls?"

**III**

"In looking at failed states, a crucial aspect is to distinguish between what we'd term 'economic failures', and what we'd term 'political failures'."

As guest lecturer at the Nekomi Institute of Technology, Dr. Eva Cebotari was actually impressed by the turnout of undergraduate and graduate students who'd shown up for her political science lecturer. It was hardly a liberal arts school, and the timing was sub-optimal—last class of the day—but nonetheless, almost a hundred students from their teens to her age had shown up. She stood at the front of the auditorium, in front of a map of the Before Colony world, wearing a tight, dark blue blazer and skirt over a blouse and dark green tie.

"As I mentioned earlier, in the year 1992, the world saw the demise of one of its two major military and economic powers: the Soviet Union. Its victorious rival, the United States of America, widely saw this as an economic failure. In actuality, political and economic failures go hand in hand, but to say the causes of the country's death were economic was incorrect. The Soviet Union transformed into the politically weak Commonwealth of Independent States because of a widespread political failure: a dissolution clause was built into the framework of the Soviet constitution decades earlier. Likewise, even as the overwhelming majority of citizens voted in favor of maintaining the Union, they were unwilling to endorse a military solution to what was a political, not economic problem."

She tapped the remote pen in her hand, changing the image projected onto the wall in front of her, of a photograph of an ancient interstate highway bridge collapsing into large North American river. "In the end of the next century, the victor, the United States, suffered a different failure that led to its disintegration. As it happened, the Eurasians endured a decade of economic hardship that made the sudden political failure all that more severe. For the Americans, several decades of political gridlock made a sudden economic blow—the Futures Crash of the 2080s—less…survivable."

Eva was actually speaking in her usual quiet, breathy tone, made audible by the microphone pinned to her collar.

"With that, the last great capitalist democratic state was relegated to the so-called 'dustbin of history'. World superpower status went to the People's Republic of China. It remained with China through the end of the next century, with the rise and fall of Corporatism. The great capitalist powers, China included, ultimately were torn from the inside by their dependence on an internationalist entrepreneurial class. Well, internationalist in the sense that it owed its loyalty to no nation, though not so much that it advocated an internationalist system or world disarmament. Corporatism promised to bring about an end to war, like communism and capitalist democracy before it, and likewise failed. Unlike the 'true' neoliberal democracies, China survived corporatism and remained the world superpower through the founding of the Eurasian Union. It remained so until the founding of the United Earth Sphere Alliance, which replaced it."

She paused for a moment, and almost immediately, a few hands shot up in the audience. She pointed at a woman sitting in the front row.

"The People's Republic of China is more than four-hundred years old. It's outlived every major power that existed when it was founded. Why exactly is _it _so immune?" she asked.

"It's not immune so much as _resilient_. Certain European monarchies, as well as the Dominion of Canada, are older. The nation of Japan is four years older than the People's Republic, but is a rare case. Consider the Republic of Taiwan as a more typical example."

Her breast pocket vibrated softly. "Though the continuity of some of these countries…is debatable. Excuse me."

She withdrew her mobile and glanced at the screen. "I'm sorry, this is urgent."

Eva withdrew from the podium and walked to her Japanese guide, who was waiting at the door. "Military business, I need to take this."

While the guide bowed politely, she activated the tiny earpiece concealed in an earring. "Go ahead."

A young woman with an electronically-masked voice responded. "_This is Lyra. Lieutenant Noin just arrived at the Peacecraft Estate. I'll delay her as long as possible._"

She hung up the call discreetly and pocketed the mobile. "I'm afraid I need to be leaving. _Now_."

**IV**

Racing back to New Yokohama by car, Eva arrived in time to see Noin forcing her way past three uniformed housemaids and into the Deputy Foreign Minister's residence through the front door. She wasn't in uniform—instead, she wore noble attire of some sort, with a expensive-looking blue coat, though Eva didn't get a good look at it.

"Doctor!" One of the housemaids cried out.

_I wonder which one of you is Lyra. _"I know. You did what you could," she told them, unbuttoning her blazer to reveal a taut off-white blouse, and then pulling off her tie.

"Doctor? What…what are you doing?"

"I'm going to go speak with the flight lieutenant. I don't want to ruin my suit," she told them, tossing her blazer as she passed, before unbuttoning her blouse. "Lieutenant Noin!" she called out, actually raising her voice. She had already begun speaking with Relena Darlian on the other side of the tea room.

"And you are…?"

"_Major _Eva Cebotari," she told her disdainfully, slowly approaching her, high heels clicking against the hardwood floor. After undoing four buttons, she un-tucked her blouse and quickly stretched her arms behind her back once.

Noin raised an eyebrow. "So I guess that makes you Ms. Relena's…keeper?"

"Maybe I am. I'm here to tell you to leave without Relena Darlian." She came to a stop about half a meter from the other woman whom, thanks to her high heels and long legs, she towered over. "I won't ask you what you're doing here, but you should leave. Now."

To her dismay, Noin just stared up at her for another moment, before smiling and chuckling.

"Sorry, Major. I can't do that."

Eva blinked once, slowly and deliberately. Noin gave a sigh but forced a smile and continued. "Ms. Relena is going to attend the Romefeller Foundation summit in Bremen."

"As a representative of the Sanc Kingdom?" Eva asked.

Noin slowly nodded. "And I don't think you can stop me."

"I think you misunderstood me. The Darlians aren't under arrest. They can come and go as they please, and they have."

"Then what's the problem?"

Eva gave her smile with her blood-red lips. "You're out of uniform, Lieutenant."

Noin didn't respond to that.

"Where exactly is your posting?"

Again, no answer.

"Flight Lieutenant, I _order _you to answer me."

Noin just stood there, staring back into Eva's maroon eyes, her jaw clenched. _Right now, you remind me a little of another nineteen-year-old flight lieutenant…_

And then it dawned on her, as the younger woman's service photographs flashed by in her mind. Noin didn't care. Short of taking out the small self-defense pocket pistol the Military Commissariat begged for her to keep strapped to her right thigh underneath her skirt and _shooting _Noin, there was nothing Eva could do to threaten Noin into capitulation. Noin didn't care about her military career, or her family, or her comrades save for one. Her cognition existed in a vacuum.

She made no attempt to hide her displeasure. "Looks like you've won. I hate losing. Maybe it's worth it though. I can see it in your eyes—for once in your short life, clear, focused. I love eyes like those."

Eva smiled again and then stepped aside. "Enjoy your trip to Bremen, Citizen Lucrezia Noin." _I doubt you care that you'll never serve in OZ again. _

Noin gave an awkward, forced nod before walking away, as Eva sighed very faintly. When Noin had cleared the tearoom, Eva took out her mobile and with one hand, typed in a message.

**9 LEAVING WITH 0. ORDERS?**

The mobile vibrated when a response came via cellular signals.

**ORDERS FROM TOP: ALLOW 0 AND 9 TO DEPART UNHARMED. THEIR PRESENCE IS DESIRED AT BREMEN. **

Eva pocketed her mobile before crossing her arms under her chest. She had planned out what she might've done in her head: grappled with Noin using the advantage of her thinner, lighter clothing to force her against the nearest wall until Lyra, wherever she was, ran in with the submachine gun she was supposed to always be concealed carrying. Eva was fairly confident she had both the advantage of strength and height on Noin, but couldn't calculate for endurance.

_They're Parsons' problem now._

**V (Eyecatch)**

"Have you seen the casualty reports coming out of Xinjiang? They're like the ones coming out of Utah and out of Haiti. Everywhere Alliance remnants engage national military forces, they inflict severe, even catastrophic losses. Otherwise, they wouldn't still be fighting."

"And OZ?"

"When we fight the Alliance, the situation is reversed. It's why a few weeks ago, there were almost thirty Alliance Air Armies, and not a single one still exists whole. The national situation is true for the colonists as well—before the Gundams landed, can you think of a single campaign the colonials didn't lose in thirty years of fighting? A single battle?"

"I can't," A. K. Mazuri admitted. He was speaking to another flight officer, Bradley. Both of them were at the Yuri Gagarin Military Space Forces Academy, an ancient Russian school outside Monino that had been converted for Alliance use when the UESA monopolized all interstellar weapons and military forces after its founding. It had been run by the Special Mobile Suit Troops, and remained an OZ academy, not unlike Lake Victoria.

"I tell you, it's a zero-sum game: the more OZ pilots are moved from Earth to space, the worse it's going to get back here."

"I don't think you completely understand what a 'zero-sum game' is, actually…"

"Comrades," an authoritative voice announced. It belonged to Flight Lieutenant Chernenko, whom Mazuri recognized from the awards ceremony in Moscow. He still had a large, distinctive scar extending up from his mouth that Ali couldn't understand why he didn't have corrected. "Welcome to the Gagarin Space Forces School. You've been called here for a refresher on your outer space training before reassignment in new Taurus units. So, if any of you have the wrong place, now's your chance to leave."

Mazuri actually looked around—apparently, Chernenko's delivery of the joke had made it difficult for his audience to realize he was making an attempt at humor. The Ukrainian coughed into his space suit's hand.

"Right then. Are there any questions?"

Bradley's hand shot up. "Sir, what method are we using? I didn't see a drop-tube anywhere on site."

Chernenko nodded. "Good observation. That's because Yuri Gagarin _isn't_ zero-G drop-tube facility. The school's been here for a few hundred years, in the middle of a major Moscow suburb. Can't very well dig giant holes like we can at Lake Victoria."

_More like no one stopped you there,_ Mazuri thought.

"Can anyone give the other two preferred zero-G training methods?"

A woman in the row behind Mazuri raised her hand. "Space elevator, sir?"

"Space elevators _were _popular, Ms. Ivanova. Unfortunately, the colonials decided to destroy most of those back when we were kids, and with the Gundams still on Earth, none are operational. That just leaves one."

Mazuri glanced around again before raising his own hand and answering. "Reduced gravity aircraft, sir?"

"Very good, Mr. Mazuri. Yuri Gagarin has no less than eight space planes for this purpose alone, each capable of carrying six trainees in full simulation gear. That means your normal suits and your sim-chairs. This isn't your great-grandfather's weightless wondes either: you'll get almost two and a half minutes of weightlessness for six minutes of flight. And it's a hell of a lot cheaper and more reliable than dropping you in a giant hole in the ground."

The two-dozen flight and pilot officers in the room, fully dressed in formfitting OZ normal suits, chuckled at that joke.

"Some of you who didn't have the privilege of the Lake Victoria treatment will have done this before. Without any further questions, we'll board the aircraft right now, and you'll strap into your chairs before takeoff. Any questions?"

Mazuri raised his hand again casually.

"Yes, Mr. Mazuri?"

"Whose idea was it for OZ to issue blue normal suits to men and violet ones to women?" he asked, with a completely straight face. In the ensuing chortling, Chernenko put a hand to his face and shook his head.

"I left the Recon Battalion for this?"

**VI**

"I told you this was going to be a problem." Officer Cadet Edward Parsons was speaking on a secure telephone line at the main communications center of OZ Military Commissariat, where he'd been abruptly recalled. He hadn't planned on being here: in fact, he'd planned on returning to Japan until either the Military Commissariat or the Foundation made its move on Zechs Merquise. Instead, he'd been ordered to go directly from Kaliningrad to the OZ Military Court in Luxembourg, awaiting reassignment elsewhere.

Eva Cebotari was on the other end, sounding irritated. It was a dangerous sound to Parsons. _I might be half a world away, and it might not be my fault, but I still feel anxious. Why is that? _

"Well, someone in the Foundation wanted her to go, so they let her. What's the problem exactly?"

"_When she was playing princess from Yokohama, we could control and monitor her. But now that she's in league with Noin…_"

"She might try linking up with Colonel Zechs, who, by the way, is not here," he warned. "I thought you might want to know that."

"_And?_"

He sighed. "And he'll be returning tomorrow for Acht's investigation. So if we were expecting he was going to just jump in a miraculously rebuilt Unit Zero-One and _fly_ out of here, that's not happening."

"_Of course he wasn't. He'd have to leave Tallgeese._"

He paused. "You don't seriously think he might have completely restored a Gundam, do you?" he asked, doing his best to sound calm and collected.

"_What I think doesn't matter_," Eva countered sharply, at least by her breathy standards. "_Noin literally just boarded one of the Darlians' private jets at the diplomatic hangar at Haneda with Relena in tow._"

"Right, diplomatic immunity. That apparently still counts even after the diplomat is dead."

"_It counts if the only way to stop them is with an arrest, which I can't do with both hands tied behind my back._"

He sat down at the small desk in the private room, leisurely propping his legs up against a nearby wall. "I get the picture, thanks. If someone in the Foundation is so convinced that Relena Darlian needs to be free to fly from her cage, I say we keep doing our job and capitalize on it," he told her, a smiling creeping across his face.

"_You're saying we stop her from returning to Japan, and force her to make her intentions apparent?_"

"Exactly. No more kid gloves, and no more of this damn sneaking around. What do you think?"

Eva didn't respond immediately.

"Come on, Doctor. I never pegged you for the type who'd regret keeping a grown woman from seeing her mother for the indefinite future, if it meant doing your job."

"_She's not a grown woman. And second, I wouldn't regret it. But I do think you're playing a dangerous game, Edward._"

He didn't respond, instead smirking in the room softly.

"_…fine. Inform the Military Commissariat—I'm placing Maureen Darian under strict protective custody. I can do that much._"

"Now we're talking. I'll keep you informed on Zech's moves here. Are you following her to Bremen?"

"_For the time being. If I can't stop her, I'll at least see what she does next. Noin won't stop me._"

"Sounds fun. I'll be in touch." Glancing over his shoulder, Parons hung up the telephone and stood up straight, fixing his uniform, before exiting the security booth. He'd spotted Inspector Johan Act through the insulating glass window just a minute earlier.

"I apologize for the delay, Chief Inspector," he said as sincerely as he could manage, straightening out his folding cap.

"It's no trouble son," Acht said, in his usual friendly tone. He wore his ridiculous but equally typical double-breasted suit, overcoat and top hat. "I remember probationary busy work, believe it or not."

Parsons followed Acht, who was flanked by two plainclothes security personnel from the Foundation, to a private office overlooking the academy campus. "As much as I appreciate your anxieties, there's not much for us to do until Lieutenant Colonel Merquise reports in. Why not relax and enjoy your time in Luxembourg?"

Parsons ignored him, in part. "Who would have thought a senior officer under investigation wouldn't cooperate?" he offered sarcastically.

Acht smiled at him. "You remind me of myself. Don't take that as a compliment necessary. If you must do something, come and take a look at these photographs."

The two men sat down at the table, where a number of photographs were neatly arranged in two rows. Parsons recognized a few of them, but kept it to himself. "Of course, sir. Who're these?"

"Material witnesses either recalled to or remaining in Lake Victoria concerning the technical analysis of Unit Zero-One's wreckage. It's not as though they're under arrest or anything of that sort, we're just concerned about the sensitivity of information, as I'm sure Colonel Zechs was."

"Of course, sir."

"Anyone you recognize?"

Parsons didn't have much of a choice but to glance across the twenty photographs. He actually recognized many of the names, particularly those he knew were from Zechs' personal mechanical crew. Oswald Walker, whom Walker had known had been present at Bremen, though not called in for the analysis, wasn't represented.

He felt his eyes stop briefly at one photograph: the only woman represented. He immediately regretted it, but it was too late.

"Something you know, Mr. Parsons?"

_There's no denying it now. _"I...just thought I recognized her name," he said, reaching for one of the photographs. "Engineer Rachel Bishop."

He deliberately cocked his head. "Oh, now I know: she shares a surname with a pilot officer whose unit in the Mobile Suit Troops was mentioned in the investigation."

"Bishop, eh? Well, it's a common enough surname," Acht observed in a dismissive tone. "Is there anyone else you recognize?"

_The worst thing you can do to a trained political officer is lie to them._ He paused briefly before pointing at another photograph. "Gunther Mieser. An Alliance technical chief, now Zech's personal crew chief for the last few months."

"Go on."

**VII**

"You know I just remembered something?"

Flight Lieutenant Ogasawara, in full uniform, sat in the mobile suit troops ready room at Lake Baikal Cosmodrome. Through the window, she could see brand new black-and-red mobile suits, OZ-12SMS 'Taurus', being loaded aboard heavy lift vehicles.

"What's that, Carlos?"

Flight Officer Motta, with a fully-healed leg and a new uniform, stretched out in a folding chair. "Going up to space means we'll be meeting you-know-who again, doesn't it?"

"I'd expect that," she said, signing paperwork with a pen.

"Great. Something to look forward to, along with their lousy food, over air-conditioning, and claustrophobia."

"You don't have to go into space if you don't want to, Carlos," Emi reminded him.

"I know, I know."

"What's that about lousy food?" Flight Officer Syed Khan closed the door behind her, taking an empty chair near Carlos.

"You haven't heard? The Colonials have had two-hundred years to get used to tasteless, factory-farmed, genetically-modified plant life they call 'food'. It's like farming in the greenhouse section of a department store," Motta told his comrade.

"Well that sucks."

"Exactly."

"How about you guys actually worry about the _war _before you worry about the bad food?" Emi offered, not looking up from her paper.

"Yes ma'am, commander, ma'am," Motta mumbled. "Anyone see Nabiki?"

"She's a staff officer, which means she's overseeing the Taurus loading."

"Lucky her." The room became silent when Emi's nearby laptop beeped three times, catching her attention. She unfolded the thin computer, bringing it out of hibernation, as she pressed several keys.

"What's that?"

"Call from Outer Space," Emi explained.

"Why isn't it on your mobile? Who uses a computer to call?"

"Your mobile _is _a computer, dumbass," Syed Khan smirked softly.

"Because Outer Space communication is by satellite only, not the worldwide network," Emi explained quickly. "Earth to Space needs to be routed through something besides the mobile in your pocket." She brought up the software and answered the call: a video image appeared of Tycho Nichol at a similar computer. Above the screen, the tiny camera on the laptop's lid flashed a blue light.

"Whatever. So long as it's not the Iron Colonel."

"Nichol. Why am I not surprised?" she asked, grinning.

"_Flight Lieutenant Ogasawara, charming as always_," he said, grinning back. He's head tilted on the screen. "_Is that lipstick?_'

"Sitting at Lake Baikal waiting for launch orders leaves you with a _lot _of free time."

"_Well, we'll be happy when you get here. L1-D-120's proving to be a nut we're not equipped to crack._"

"They did have a few decades to plan for just this contingency, didn't they? We're still dealing with Alliance fiefdoms in Haiti and Utah. I can't imagine how badsounds it is _Outer Space_."

"_Give it a try. Speaking of which, I heard Xinjiang's no longer an issue._"

"Yes, but only after most of the units pulled out—a Gundam showed up and destroyed most of the Republican Guard and killed Bundt. No Bundt means no military government, and no military government means no _independent _government. The Long Marchers didn't know what they were getting themselves into when they enlisted a Gundam."

"_We can tell Beijing's happy way up here. There's even rumors the Long March is breaking up._"

"Not much they can do. It was one thing when they were fighting against the Alliance or OZ. Are they going to oppose the _people of China_?"

"_Guess not._" Nichol shifted in his seat. "_So, any idea when we can expect you and the rest of the third deployment?_"

"First Division not cutting it?"

"_The Taurus is amazing—I would know—but with two deployments has left us with sixteen squadrons. That's barely two battalions, much less a Space Army, and the Alliance still has a few of those._" He tilted his head. "_Which is not to say us boys in the First Division can't handle ourselves up here…_"

Emi laughed at the screen, as the other pilots in the room chuckled. _Besides reduced-size support battalions, OZ's First Division consists of four companies of four squadrons each__—the first operational Taurus units that were sent to space following the failed Gundam attack on their transport aircraft at Mirny—joining a few separate Leo battalions. Those relied on the superior firepower of the next generation Taurus to make up for the fact that they were low-strength units overall. Thanks to their small size, the unit commanders are predominantly flight officers like Nichol, instead of full lieutenants. _Emi had seen this sort of thing before: for example, Walker had been one when he was a F/O in the Middle East, apparently.

"Starting to feel the pressure, huh Nichol? I guess technology on goes so far."

"_What…what are you saying, Emi?_" Nichol teased. "_You say these words, they make sense by themselves, but when you put them together..._"

Emi grinned triumphantly at the screen. "You just wait, Tycho. The Special Recon Battalion's going to show you so-called space troops how to _win _a war."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_Well, we didn't get to Walker and Relena. That was my fault—when deciding between having two average length chapters and one really, really long one (the longest so far), I decided for the former. It's funny, because I already have that encounter largely written out, and I'm quite proud of it—now I just need to mesh it into the rest of it._

_We're coming onto episode 14 of the original TV series. You'll notice I've skipped a few things—namely, the Battle of Mogadishu, Trowa's ambush of OZ soldiers at the circus. They may appear in flashback, but I don't think I'll be looking at them too closely (I've got a finite amount of space, since this work is already really long as it is, and I included one thing I really thought _Gundam Wing _lacked, that is, a big ship-to-ship space naval battle)_. _I'm also in the process of retconning my own work, changing Walker's name to Oswald full time. _

_Speaking of long, last chapter I surpassed, in length, my original _Soldier of OZ _fanfic. 131k, before this chapter. Now, if only I could get more reviews, heh (then again, those reviews were collected over multiple years…). Stay tuned, I promise more Relena (for better or worse) come next chapter! _


	21. The Grandeur of Romefeller, II

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 21 **– The Grandeur of Romefeller, II****

The next morning, 11 July AC 195, on the River Weser, Lucrezia Noin stood on the deck of the humble schooner she had used her connections to obtain. With her was Relena Darlian. Both women wore the royal robes of the fallen Sanc Kingdom, making at home with the ornately dressed officials of the Romefeller Foundation and the officers of the Order of the Zodiac.

"Looks like we're gonna' to make it in time," Noin observed, circling the deck to Relena. In front of the cabin, Relena stood quietly in her thick robes and gloves.

"Something the matter?" Noin asked her, and she pointed a finger. Along the riverside were three OZ-06MS 'Leo' mobile suits in OZ cobalt blue, armed with the standard 105 mm autocannon with the additional close combat shield with anti-beam coating. All three belonged to the 22nd Royal Guards Surface Battalion, of the OZ Mobile Suit Troops.

"The Leos on display, huh?" Noin looked at the machines herself. "They've been the backbone of mobile suit troops of both Alliance and OZ." _Not to mention a few colonies…_

"Why was the Romefeller Foundation so set on the use of mobile suits anyway?" Relena asked.

Noin thought about it. "I suppose because people tend to fear huge war machines, but at the same time stand in awe of them," she offered. _Something I read years ago._

She continued. "Mobile suits walk like men. The Foundation must have preferred warfare between human-looking machines over war fought by pressing buttons."

"There is no formality when it comes to killing men. If there were, it'd be a game, toying with people's lives. In war, a quick death is most honest," Relena said, thinking aloud. Beyond them were a pair of decommissioned OZ-07AMS 'Aries' mobile suits on display on pylons, alongside OZ's guard of honor.

**II**

Flight Lieutenant Walker sat at the dining table in the one of the smaller estates on Stadland Castle's grounds, finishing what was for him a very late breakfast.

"Will there be anything else, Flight Lieutenant?"

He looked over to the butler, the only civilian Walker knew who went out his way to call him "flight lieutenant" rather than just "lieutenant." He was part of Duke Dermail's household staff, and he and another two men on the staff served breakfast to a group of a six company-grade officers, flight lieutenants and squadron commanders.

"This's plenty, thank you, Mr. Carson." It was extravagant food, even for an officer in OZ: tea, cakes, crêpes, poached eggs and the like. The other officers, none of whom Walker recognized, enjoyed their meals while taking care not to dirty their uniforms. Trying to remember which fork to work, Walker glanced over to the other North American officer in the next seat help himself to a glass of wine from a crystal decanter held by a servant.

"You don't think it's too early to be drinking?" he asked, partially out of boredom.

The other officer finished his glass before he responded.

"No."

Walker finished before standing up from his chair, with the butler helping him put on his cape—an awkward experience—before he left. As planned, he made the short walk to Treize Khushrenada's office, flanked on either side by bodyguards who allowed him to enter. To his surprise, the office was empty, its computers switched off but the curtains still pulled back.

He glanced around the ornate furnishings and approached Treize's empty desk, holding his thin leather briefcase. Opening it, he took out a number of schematic diagrams, printed on plastic drafting sheets.

"If the colonel wasn't going to be here, I wouldn't have taken his suggestion to have long breakfast," Walker mumbled out loud.

"It wasn't intended as an insult, I assure you."

Turning towards the door, Walker found himself confronted by a large man a year or so older than him, white with straight brown hair and a strong jawline, wearing a noncommissioned officer's dress uniform.

"Excuse me, who are you?"

"Pardon me sir," he said, saluting. "Master Aircrew Fidel Serrati."

Walker's eyes narrowed. "You're Colonel Treize's new adjutant, Une's replacement, aren't you?"

"I...am," he admitted, very carefully.

Walker turned back to the desk. "His Excellency requested these reports as soon as possible. Please see to it that he gets them when he returns."

"His Excellency said you'd be here, Flight Lieutenant Walker. His instructions were for you to leave them here during Duke Dermail's opening speech for the summit."

Walker glanced at his wristwatch. "That's about to begin, excuse me."

Watching him hurry out of the office, Seratti closed the French doors after him and glanced back at the reports. _So that lieutenant is the colonel's pet engineer, _he thought to himself while sneaking a glance at the documents he had delivered: computer-drafted schematics and designs of a mobile suit that looked suspiciously like a Gundam.

**III**

It took a short motorcycle ride to reach Stadland Castle's main ballroom. The main floor was reserved for dignitaries and their children, so the other OZ officers in attendance who weren't posted at the entrances or otherwise on duty assembled along the balconies, where they remained largely invisible to the real guests.

Walker arrived just in time to catch a the vigorous applause being given to Lord Dermail Catalonia, Duke of Liechtenstein. It was the first time he'd ever seen the sixty-year-old chairman of the Romefeller Foundation in person. He was surprised by his appearance: he only superficially resembled his son, the founder of the Special Mobile Suit Troops, Chilias Catalonia. The Duke was a large, broad-shouldered man with a thick grey beard and mustache, in a style of dress that matched the 18th century fashion of the summit, with only a few brave men wearing conventional suits and a few women wearing modern stylish dresses. Behind him was a massive banner of the United Earth Sphere Alliance, likely a souvenir captured by OZ from the parliament in Tokyo or a similar government building. _Very subtle._

The Duke stood triumphantly on the stage, a hand against his waist and another one gesturing wildly like the supremely confident plutocrat that he was.

"My friends and colleagues," he began. "On this beautiful summer morning, I would like to talk to you, the men and women to whom history as entrusted stewardship of the world, about the subject of peace. Even today, there are comparatively few who understand the mechanics of war and peace and the responsibilities of the Foundation."

"On that topic, I'd like to tell a story. Centuries ago, when I was a young man," he began, as the crowd chuckled softly at his joke. "…when I was a young man, during the new era of the Alliance, like all young people I was forced to consider where I would stand in life."

Walker felt someone tap his shoulder and turned to see F/O Benjamin Disraeli, also in his dress uniform. They both leaned against the rail along the balcony and listened.

"I had many options. I could be a liberal, I could be a Christian democrat, I could be a capitalist, a technocrat or even a Marxist. It was no easy task, but I had the privilege of deciding that for myself. Surprisingly, I was still a young man when the Alliance finally imposed Earth's law on the Colonies, to return to sovereign nations the fruits of decades of labor that a radical minority would otherwise take for themselves.

"It was at this time I had the privilege of first meeting a very brilliant young man, a colonial political thinker and philosopher after my own heart, I would add…" Dermail continued with a chuckle. "…by the name of Heero Yuy. Yuy would, of course, go on to forge the first great Outer Space political organization that bore his name, and become the first great intercolonial leader.

"When I knew Yuy, he was tasked with forging a meaningful intercolonial government, in the face of unending charges of egomania, corruption and intrigue from both the usual rabble on both Earth and the colonies. Ultimately, those charges led to his assassination twenty years ago, and the colonies descended into the Dark Ages from which they've only recently recovered. The Alliance enjoyed its golden age, paid for by Earth.

"During this time period, like the rest of you, I came to see the flaws in playing politics. I was still a good Christian, a good humanist and a good liberal. I saw what happened to Heero Yuy when he offered a _reasonable _alternative to hysterical anarchy. I saw the responsibility of those of us to whom Earth and the human species had been entrusted to, what would happen if we allowed them to fall to anarchy as the colonies had." He smiled under his mustache. "And I learned how easy it was to make the mistake of leaving leadership to those just one rung up the ladder above anarchy."

"Who do you think that was supposed to be? Disraeli whispered when Walker shushed him.

"Like any good humanist, I do not take war lightly. But there are things _worse _than war. To quote a soldier from the past, books and bullets have their own destinies. For all of its suffering, or rather, because of its suffering, war is incomparable schooling of the heart. And that's why I can say without a shadow of doubt the wars being fought today on Earth are just.

"Now, I know my history: in the past, the United Earth Sphere Alliance needed considerable wealth and resources in its pursuit of world peace. We in the Foundation didn't hesitate to cooperate with them in that pursuit. But the Alliance, frustrated in its own failures, turned to dialog to deliver what its own arms could not. A choice we all knew would _fail. _Earth has too many disputes to be solved just through dialog. What it _needs _is a willingness to lead and rule. That is what we pursue today, in the absence of the Alliance, and it is how a stable peace can be obtained.

He gestured powerfully at the crowd. "In the end, the Alliance lacked the necessary talent for its mission. A great many responsibilities are needed to rule, and they attempted to escape those responsibilities can call it 'demilitarization' and 'disarmament.' We have seen the past, we know what it takes to rule. Humanity still clings to vague, obscure ideas like 'equality' and 'freedom', and has been corrupted by them. The time has arrived where leaders must take control."

As applause came from the guests below, Walker surveyed the crowd, when something caught his eye on the opposite balcony: a OZ senior officer smiling calmly at him with pale skin and blood red lips. Dr. Eva Cebotari, in her full dress uniform with major's epaulets, widened her smile and pulled her right arm out from underneath her cape, then pointed quickly downwards with a white-gloved hand before hiding her arm underneath the cape again. Walker glanced down and his eyes widened: there, standing by herself in strange, vaguely militaristic Scandinavian royal robes, was Lucrezia Noin. She was sitting next to a young girl in similar dress whom he didn't recognize. They were talking to each other quietly, too quietly for him to make out.

_So where has she been all this time? _He thought, looking back up at Eva; now she was shaking her head very gently. _What does that mean?_

The Duke continued. "It is my pleasure to introduce the conqueror of the Alliance. A fine gentleman whom is nothing less than a brave knight, fighting for us in his unending quest to attain a meaningful world peace. A board member of the Romefeller Foundation and OZ's commander-in-chief: Treize Khushrenada."

As Treize slowly and deliberately climbed the steps up the stage, in full military regalia, the audience became dead silent, including the military officers on the balcony, who strained themselves to hear the voice of their highest military commander over the old fashion microphone.

Even Duke Dermail politely bowed in front of his nephew, the man of the hour. He spoke in a tone of voice that made it clear he intended to be succinct. "One might argue that OZ's military superiority over Earth through the mobile suit troops might ultimately result in the same misrule that pervaded the Alliance. 'Misrule' itself is tied with oppression and arrogance, a consequence of rule and leadership. But our leadership exists to keep people's unchecked ambitions and control. _God let man run free. _Thus, mankind must be ruled, and that can only be done with a system that surpasses that of God Himself."

He put a hand to his chest and closed his eyes momentarily. "I believe God would understand the steps we're taking. That our decisions have not been malicious and contrary to those of humans, but instead, a genuine embrace of humanity. We are all humanist, and we are all flawed as humans. The path we forge ahead will be marked by further bloodshed and suffering, but the lives lost will not have been in vain, so long as I may stand before you. With God as my witness, that will be OZ's duty."

Almost immediately, applause rang out from the balconies, followed quickly by clapping and voiced approval from the main floor. Both Treize and Duke Dermail descended to the crowd to schmooze further, as the former shook hands with numerous dignitaries. Walker was about to leave the balcony when Disraeli tapped on his shoulder again.

"F/L, take a look at that. Who's she?"

Walker glanced over his shoulder. While His Grace exchanged almost raucous, self-satisfied laughter with other top Foundation officials, His Excellency was now clinking glasses with number of young women in the center of the crowd. Apparently, he'd said something witty, as an attractive brown-haired woman with wavy hair that reminded him of Ogasawara in expensive lime-green dress and jewelry was giggling at his remark.

"That's the Duchess de la Roca. She's the daughter of Archduke of Aragon, head of the Foundation's charitable organizations."

"No, not the Duchess, the older one next to her."

Treize raised the same glass at the Duchess' companion, a slender woman around Walker's age in a dark red cocktail dress with matching gloves that went past her elbows. She had long straight orange-red hair that reached partly to her shoulders while the rest was kept in a loose ponytail high on the back of her head and bangs framing her face. She turned her head briefly to Walker before turning away, seeming to nod at Treize as both drank. There was something very different about her than the other well-dressed women in attendance.

"No idea. Why?"

"Oh, there was just something...odd about her. I think she had an eye closed."

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind," Disraeli mumbled, sounding embarrassed.

"Well, it's no secret Treize is a darling of affluent women worldwide," Walker observed. "We should probably get going."

He looked over his shoulder. "Disraeli? Ben, come on!"

Disraeli was leaning over the balcony rail, as though searching for something. "Wasn't Lieutenant Noin with a girl?"

"Lonely much, Disraeli?"

"No, I'm being serious!"

Walker rolled his eyes and glanced down in Noin's direction; she was now looking around rapidly, in the unmistakable fashion of someone who had been charged with watching over someone and had just recently failed. Almost instinctual, he glanced back up at Eva, who gestured with her head towards the stage: the young girl in the white robes had climbed onto the stage and taken the microphone, removing it from the too-tall stand.

"All of you are mistaken!" she said accusingly. "_Very _mistaken. And the Gundams will soon come to rectify _your _mistakes."

Despite himself, Walker put a gloved hand over his face and groaned softly. Somehow, he knew this was Noin's fault. He didn't know exactly what _it _was, but he felt like it must have been Noin's doing somehow.

"As ambassador to those _stifled _by this whitewashed rhetoric..." As if to confirm Walker's suspicions, Noin forced her way through the crowd and leapt deftly onto the stage.

"Relena, that's enough!"

_Relena? Where have I heard that name before? In _La Alba Nero_? No, not that. _He visibly frowned. _Was it…Zechs? _He felt himself suddenly overcome with dread.

"No, I'm not finished yet."

"Please, Relena, I'm begging you…"

Walker got a better look at her from behind Treize, when she finally descended down the stage. The Duke and Treize had exchanged a few words quietly before approaching the young interloper directly.

"Thank you, Flight Lieutenant," Treize told Noin, before turning to Relena. A smile crept across his face. Standing at attention next to Duke Dermail, Walker visibly frowned.

_I know those kind of eyes, _Treize thought as Noin thanked him for his patience and bowed.

Walker clicked his heels together to get Duke Dermail's attention. "Your Grace, should we…?"

"No," Dermail ordered him clearly, before turning to Treize, who was still holding his glass.

"You'll have to forgive me, she's the younger sister of a friend I invited."

_Younger sister? Does that make her the younger Peacecraft sibling? Zech's sister? _Walker barely hid his confusion.

"What on Earth was she getting at?" His Grace asked.

"She must has sensed our anxiety towards the Gundams. Perhaps she's recommending we act more confidently," Treize offered calmly.

"Speaking of which, I wanted to speak to you about Zechs Merquise. I think you're affording him far too much freedom."

"What do you mean?"

"There are rumors that he's taken it upon himself to rebuild that Gundam that self-destructed in Mirny at the academy at Lake Victoria."

Another official stood forward. "That's insane! That mobile suit was a menace to Earth!"

The Archduke of Aragon nodded in agreement. "The Gundam should be completely destroyed as a message to those aggressors in the Colonies."

Treize nodded calmly. "Of course, I'll contact Colonel Zechs immediately and ensure the remaining traces of the Gundam are destroyed." He then turned to Walker, a move that caught him by surprise. "Lieutenant Walker is both an engineer and a veteran of the Battle of Mirny. I'd like to have him brief me on the details of the salvaged remains, though I'm sure he'll be able to answer any technical questions you might have."

Walker resisted the urge to jump in his boots. Before today, he'd never stood within two meters of an Archduke before, now one along with the leader of the Romefeller Foundation was staring at him. "O-Of course, sirs."

"Walker, if you'll join me."

"Yes, sir. Excuse me, sirs." Walker turned to follow Treize, as they passed the Duchess de la Roca and her female companion. As they passed, the Duchess's friend winked at Walker: it was then Walker realized that her left eye was permanently shut, as though from injury.

Walker said nothing until they had left the ballroom. "Sir, do we need to be this urgent? They're still…"

Treize cut him off. "Better to put their minds at ease immediately. Don't worry, this'll just take a moment. You'll be back before the chardonnay runs out."

_Especially now that Duke Dermail and his yachting buddies are all expecting a briefing. _"Of course, Colonel."

Treize glanced at him as they strolled, still smiling. "That was Shalua Yuy."

"Pardon me?"

"The Duchess's guest, Shalua Yuy. One of few remaining members of the Yuy Foundation, from the colonies."

"She came here from the colonies?" Walker echoed a little stupidly.

"The Foundation does represent the nexus of wealth and power in all of Earth Sphere, Walker."

**IV**

The klaxon sounded loudly, and the zero-G mobile suit simulation thrones began drifting around the drop tube car. The tone indicated that David Ackerson Bishop was dead; Dac's virtual mobile suit had been destroyed by the opposing team, for the third time in as many rounds.

Angrily, Dac pulled off his MFD helmet—a modified leather MS troop's helmet, with screens over the eyes—and glanced around at the other officers, all dressed in identical white outfits that vaguely resembled fencing attire. "Worse freakin' video game ever."

"Mr. Bishop, please keep your helmet on until the exercise is finished," the overseeing officer announced.

Dac groaned to himself and pulled the helmet back on, as he floated upside down past another simulation throne. The weightlessness, zero gravity simulated by the speed the car was accelerating down the deep drop tube, didn't bother him: he could bob up, down, around for hours without the slightest feeling of nausea. Instead, he had another problem.

When the exercise ended, and they were waiting for the car to more slowly climb back up the drop tube, the officers removed their gear and looked at the scores being displayed nearby: Dac had come in second to last, again.

Dac said nothing, instead striking his helmet against his head a few times for good measure, leaving a large bruise. _When I first got to Cranwell, I was worried I might not be ready for reassignment to Outer Space. Now I'm just pissed off that I apparently suck so badly!_

He groaned aloud before sitting down on the side of his simulation throne, itself a replica of the seat in a OZ mobile suit cockpit.

"How'd you do, Dac?" a young pilot with a Welsh accent asked, sitting down next to him.

"What do you think?" he echoed.

"Eh, don't worry about it. I came in third. At least you beat Ryan, right?"

He pointed his helmet in the direction of a muscular woman who pulled off her helmet to reveal a head of straight blonde hair cut in a bob.

"Hey, Ryan, where did you come in?"

"Sixth," she yelled back.

"Un-_freaking_-believable! The _marine _beat me! How the freakin' _marine _beat me! She shouldn't even be in this goddamn tube!" Dac cried out, throwing his hands up.

The other pilot scratched the back of his head. "Well, look at it this way, Dac, they're always going to need people to fly the supply shuttles. Though maybe in your case, you'll just be guiding them into the docks."

**V**

"Hello? Inspector Acht? Yes, this is Treize Khushrenada…yes, fine. Fine, thank you. And how is Frau Acht? That's lovely to hear."

Walker stood patiently as Treize remained on the line. _What do you know? Treize makes tedious telephone calls like the rest of us._

"Yes, we certainly will, it's been too long. I _am_ making a business call—excellent. I'm officially issuing Executive Order Five-Forty: the order to destroy Gundam Zero-One."

Walker made note of it in his notebook. OZ_ Executive Order 540: the concluding of the analysis of Zero-One's remains and the ordering of their destruction for reasons of terrestrial security. Later today, the order will be put down in writing, but in the meantime, coming from Treize's lips, its official. _Walker actually felt more than a little relieved.

"…excellent, I'm sure you will. Good afternoon, Chief Inspector."

At the other end of the line, Johan Acht hung up the telephone and exited the secure room. Office Cadet Parsons was waiting outside.

"I'm impressed the brass put down their champagne glasses for long enough to take a personal interest," Parsons told him.

"You're far too cynical for your age, Mr. Parsons," he told him, taking his hat and coat. "Grab your coat and your luggage; vacation's over, we're going to Lake Victoria."

"We're taking off the kid gloves finally?"

"Among other things," Acht said, still smiling.

"What other things?"

He touched the rim of his hat. "You know, Parsons, we haven't really gotten to know each other well, may I ask you a political question?"

Parsons looked genuinely confused, perhaps as Acht intended. "Of course, sir, go ahead."

"How do you feel about the Gundams?"

Parsons scoffed. "That's…hardly a political question, Inspector. But to answer it, I think we should obliterate them. All of them, immediately."

"A sound opinion. Then I have good news."

"Sir?"

"We're going to destroy a Gundam."

**VI (Eyecatch)**

"I hate it when they do this," Disraeli said, looking over the itinerary. Walker had returned to find him looking over the planned itinerary for the remainder of the summit. As to be expected, it dealt primarily with the various political projects the Foundation was planning, such as normalizing relations with the Colonies.

Walker was supposed to take questions from Duke Dermail and others, but looking around, they seemed to be absent. Instead, a party-like atmosphere had descended upon the ballroom.

Perhaps most threatening were the various meetings deliberating different aspects of OZ's own initiatives on Earth. Since the OZ Space Forces were primarily concerned with the normalization of relations and combatting the Alliance, it was on Earth where the Romefeller Foundation could complain about OZ's conducting of the war and its further militarization of independent nations.

"I mean, I know they do it outside of summits. The whole point of the Foundation is to serve as a political forum. The exist to plot and scheme. But there's something about these summits that makes it intolerable. Like seeing someone talk about you behind your back, instead of just knowing they are."

"I can appreciate that," Walker admitted, glancing over it as well. "As officers, we obey the military hierarchy, but listening to the sort of delusions you hear at these summits doesn't make it easier," he mumbled, images of Relena Darlian flashing in his mind.

"If I may offer a Walkerism," Disraeli said. Walker shook his head, and he continued. "At least going to these conferences reminds us of how precious the distinction between the world civilian leadership—groups like the Foundation—and the world military leadership—OZ exists."

"I'm not the only person who would say that."

Disraeli continued as though he'd said nothing. "All the same, there's nothing like listening to the Foundation's bigwigs congratulate each other on being masters of their own universe," he grunted.

Walker nodded wordlessly, not making it clear if he agreed with that opinion.

"Speaking of which, I asked around…that Relena girl? That's Relena Darlian, daughter of _the_ Deputy Foreign Minister Darlian who was killed by the Gundams at New Edwards."

_Among other things._"I think I've seen her in the news before." He closed his eyes for a moment. "It was early April of this year, when Darlian returned from Outer Space."

"That's correct sir." He pointed a finger in another direction: around another table, some of Relena Darlian's handiwork could be seen: a high-ranking Foundation official was engaged in deep deliberations with his compatriots, trying to sway them to his perspective.

"So what's the Marquis Weridge up to?" Disraeli asked.

"Relena's already gotten her share of fans, her and her ideology," Walker observed, trying to keep his voice even and calm. "I've only heard of her by reputation, but apparently she's the heir to the Sanc Kingdom."

"Sanc? I haven't heard that name in years."

_I wish I could say that._"It was liberated back in May, but in reality, it's a protectorate of Denmark. The Peacecraft monarchy will take a lot of effort to be formally restored, for the time being. You can't have country with no meaningful government, even a kingdom."

The two military officers quietly listened in on Weridge's impassioned sermon, made to other dignitaries in attendance, including Shalua Yuy.

"We have a real opportunity here, with the fall of the Alliance. An opportunity to pursue a desperately needed demilitarization, to free ourselves from the grip that's strangling Earth Sphere."

"I agree, but is Scandinavian Pacifism the way to go about doing it? Even in this day and age, a princess or a queen _needs _a kingdom, doesn't she? She's not much of a banner to rally around," a Swedish Count asked, raising his glass.

"I'll give you that," Weridge admitted. "But that just demonstrates what needs to be done, even if the Foundation wants no part in it."

Yuy peered at him with one eye. "And what about the actual men who overthrew the Alliance?" she asked. "You don't think they might want some say in the future? Particularly on Earth?"

Weridge begrudgingly nodded. "Perhaps, but as six decades of the Alliance demonstrated, the military cannot be trusted to make policy or politics. Certainly you, Ms. Yuy, would appreciate this as a woman born in Outer Space."

She closed her eyes and sipped her glass. "I don't feel I'm in any sort of political position in the colonies, much less on Earth."

"That's a reasonable position to have," Weridge assured her. "It's all the more reason we must do what we can for Relena Darlian."

"It sounds like you have a vested interest here, Marquis," the Count pointed out.

"Aren't you that girl's maternal grandfather?" a newcomer asked softly. Walker was treated to the sight of the Marquis nearly jumping out of his shoes: Dr. Cebotari had silently snuck up on him, in full military dress, one hand playing with the material of her white cape.

"Very to the point," Yuy observed.

"The Marquis is Maureen Darlian's father," Eva told them. "You should know that."

Yuy glanced at the older-looking woman with one eye and smiled. "Shalua Yuy," she said, extending her hand.

"Eva Cebotari," she replied in kind, matching the smie.

Behind them, Walker and Disraeli turned away. Walker put his arms behind his back, rubbing his gloves together. "I'm more worried about the return of the pacifists. With the Alliance gone, they've really broken out the soapboxes, and here they have an audience. It's exactly what our situation needs now that the Gundams have returned," he said, scowling.

A waiter approached, with several glasses of champagne. Disraeli took one, nodding. "Disarmament to fight the Gundams, or the Foundation's self-congratulatory cloud of smoke."

"If you think of the military as an organism, either one could potentially kill it in the right place," Walker surmised.

Disraeli glanced at Walker, gesturing at him with his champagne glass. "Pick your poison, I suppose."

Walker took another glass, frowning at Disraeli. "They're all champagne."

Staring at Walker for another moment, Disraeli shook his head and sighed.

**VII**

In the middle of a sea of wrecks the OZSS _Calisto sat _engines idle, its hull marked with craters and scars of the earlier battle. Dud torpedoes, portions of mobile suit chassis and what was left of ship hulls surrounded it, creating a field of debris that rivaled that of Low Earth Orbit. Just a few kilometers away, the crippled cruiser EASFS _Calypso _drifted along, very slowly closing in.

Luna Armonia stood at the conn, flanked by large marines and surrounded by a bridge crew still wearing their olive drab uniforms. She watched with considerable interest as a flight of three OZ-12SMS 'Taurus' expertly moved into position to carefully redirect the _Calypso _onto the desired flight pattern, their beam rifles stowed on the front of the torso.

"Ma'am, Star Actual's Leo has landed and the pilot has egressed."

"Please tell the lieutenant colonel to report the conn," she replied in her typical deadpan voice.

"Yes, ma'am."

Of the Alliance taskforce, four ships had survived: the _Calypso, _which had been crippled, _Europa_, which had surrendered late in the battle after being surrounded by Tauruses, the _Minmas, _which had a massive breech just forward of the bridge which had disabled its power plant and had vented a good portion of its atmosphere, and F-2240, which had surrendered late as well and had not been fired upon because it was carrying survivors from other wrecks.

In her head, Luna planned out her report to the Space Forces General Staff: _Of the eleven warships under Arroways' command, four have been captured. Only one _Titan-_class, the _Atlas_, was able to escape. Six other ships were destroyed. Our hope was to capture all of the new cruisers, but this is an acceptable outcome._

"Well, you look very pleased," a familiar voice told her, sounding almost cheerful. Lieutenant Colonel Soris Armonia, the so-called "Sun Queen", entered the bridge sweaty but triumphant. She wore the dark grey blouse that was worn underneath a distinctive maroon tunic, now held in her arm.

Luna turned to her sister with a neutral expression. "The operation was largely successful."

"I can tell," she replied humorously. "Where's Kuznetsov?"

"I had him removed. Everyone seemed better for it."

"I'm sure." Looking more than a little tired, Soris wiped off a little bit of her makeup and ran a hand through her brightly-colored hair.

"That was a long battle," Luna observed. "How did your mobile suit perform?"

"More than adequately, though I have a few complaints," Soris asked, throwing herself in an empty chair near the C-in-C area of the bridge.

"Such as?"

Soris raised an eyebrow.

"Of my responsibilities, one of them is to ensure you're supplied with adequate equipment."

"Right, right. Well, the Type 06 beam cannon is obsolete. It's powerful enough to destroy a shuttle in a single shot, but any serious combat use nowadays tests it," she said, referring to the old beam cannon occasionally carried by the OZ-06SMS 'Space Leo'.

"Since Leos cannot easily use their dober guns in Outer Space due to recoil, it is the most firepower that you can carry normally. A rocket launcher would have insufficient ammo."

"They both have a hundredth of the power of the new beam cannons." Soris put her hands over her head. "I'd like one of those in the future."

"Of course, but Type 12 beam cannon production is slow, and diverted entirely for the new Taurus units," Luna pointed out matter-of-factly. "Perhaps you should consider using a Taurus yourself."

"Maybe. First, I'd like to see how those new rifles perform, the ones based off the Type 12 beam rifle."

"If you insist on keeping your Leo," she said, a hint of disapproval in her voice. A few kilometers head of them, there was a flash of light and a long beam cannon blast, as a Taurus used its beam cannon to disintegrate the remaining half of a _Berlin_-class escort carrier, a more efficient method of post-battle demolitions.

**VIII**

"It sounds like you're buying the gospel," Walker told Disraeli after they followed the crowd from the ball room to the grand tea room. Walker was still waiting around in case any Foundation officials requested a briefing or other explanation of military affairs.

"Before you dismiss it outright, you might want to hear what she has to say," Disraeli countered, as the two men sat down at a table.

"I think I already have. I'm not saying Scandinavian Pacifism has no role in the world ever. Remember, Romefeller did not bring down the Alliance because a few old men were proposing disarmament in the middle of a strategic invasion from space. That is why _we _did brought down the Alliance. And because we'd always intended to do so if the Alliance failed in its duties."

Disraeli sighed. "So, thanks to the Gundams, pacifism isn't feasible now?"

"If the Gundams came to Earth with the intention of targeting only the Alliance, they failed. The Alliance wasn't some intangible political cult existing in a vacuum. It was made of people, armies, governments, all of which were affected by the Gundams' actions. If the Gundams intended to bring the Alliance's grip on the Colonies, as we all expected, then they were on the right course. Their convenient ignoring of the entirety of the Alliance in space was unwise though."

Disraeli nodded. "I hate to say so, but I agree. Every day that passes, Operation 'M' seems like it makes less and less sense. The Gundams withheld attacking the Alliance after 'Daybreak', even though the Alliance still has far more military control over the colonies than OZ does, or probably ever will. It's like the Gundam pilots weren't even told who actually held the reins of power on Earth and were told go with what they knew."

Walker crossed his arms. "Well, don't let that stop you. In however long it takes the Sanc Kingdom to be restored, they'll need a military, and I don't think they'll be able to count on Denmark for it either. There's a reason the Sanc Kingdom was conquered so easily: none of their neighbors liked them."

"So, you're a historian now?" Disraeli jeered.

"We're all amateur historians. Why else would we be here?"

"How about a warrior of peace?"

Walker stared at him, his face suddenly devoid of expression. "I don't know what that means."

"Forget I said that," Disraeli mumbled, before gesturing across the room. At the double-doors, Lucrezia Noin entered, followed shortly by Relena Peacecraft. The conversation level in the tea room declined, and a few dignitaries quietly and politely clapped. Relena did not acknowledge them.

_Fourteen years old, and the bloody Queen of Sheba, _Walker thought, his face still locked in neutral. As the Merquise Weridge stood alongside Relena, he opened his arms as though to get the room's attention, only to be cut short: Shalua Yuy stepped forward from the crowd and put her right hand very softly on the green sash he wore over his royal purple suit, silencing him.

The whole room became quiet as well. Yuy glanced at Relena, locking briefly with her angry eyes, before turning to Noin. "Lieutenant, I need a word."

Noin glanced at Relena briefly, as though asking permission, before turning to Yuy. "I don't think we should disturb the room any further."

"You're wrong," Yuy told her flatly. Turning away, she scanned the room, her eyes stopping at the table. "Officer…?" she asked authoritatively.

Glancing at Disraeli, Walker immediately rose from his seat and stood at attention near the door. "Oswald Walker, Flight Lieutenant," he said mechanically.

"Fine. Oswald Walker, Flight Lieutenant, are you acquainted with Lieutenant Noin?"

He quickly looked at her. "Yes I am."

"Would you mind explaining to Lieutenant Noin that she does not have Ms. Darlian's best interests in heart by bringing her here?"

Walker's eyes widened as he stared at Yuy, than at Noin, before back to Yuy.

"Pardon me, ma'am?"

"What Walker means to say is that, in your compulsion to assist Ms. Darlian, for whatever reason, you've only succeeded in falling into a ploy set up by those who seek to harm her causes," Yuy said quickly. "You don't just stroll into Bremen. A Foundation summit is not your own personal soapbox. And before you go making threats, perhaps you should at least make them effectual first."

Yuy turned to Walker, who had been standing very still. "Right Oswald Walker, Flight Lieutenant?"

_No, that is not right. What I meant to say was that no only am I not comfortable answering that question because I do not know what interests Relena Darlian represents, or how they relate to the Romefeller Foundation. That's what I meant to say. _Instead what came out was "…I suppose so, ma'am."

"For God's sake, Walker, why don't you just…" Noin began, pointing past him, back at the table where Disraeli gaped at the four of them.

"No, wait, Noin," Relena said abruptly, cutting her off. She looked at Yuy, who stared back at her with one piercing eye, her arms crossed. It was clear she was goading her into a response. Next to her stood Walker, who stood very, very still, trying to keep his face devoid of expression.

"Mr. Walker."

_Lieutenant Walker_, he thought.

"What do you think of those…threats…I made?" she asked calmly.

"That the Gundams would come and rectify our mistakes, like some sort of wrathful God," Yuy mumbled softly.

"Please, Ms. Yuy. I'd like to hear something from Mr. Walker."

Walker stared down into the girl's blue eyes, fighting the urge to nervously fix his collar. "I suppose you would label our desire to struggle in open warfare the reasoning of tyrants," he began. "You think we hide behind the banner of a peaceful world, but we don't. Sixty years of the Alliance had invalidated the old adage, 'There was never a bad peace or a good war.'"

He glanced over at Yuy. "I suppose as a Colonial you would appreciate that more than the daughter of an Alliance high minister, ma'am."

"You can't justify your actions like that," Relena countered calmly. "You cannot just overthrow the Alliance and call yourselves the saviors of the world."

"Why not? Because of war? Fine then. Let's both live to be elderly, and see if war had actually _ended _in our lifetimes," Walker replied, the volume of his voice beginning to rise. "After this war, and the next war, and the one after that."

One hand balled into a fist, Walker looked around. He'd already said more than he cared to, but he was committed. To walk out would have been just as unseemly, would it? He sighed, glancing at Noin when he spoke again.

"Tell me, Miss Relena, do you believe in God?"

She kept that focused stare. "Of course," she replied, sounding completely honest.

"Well I don't. You see the human species through rose-colored lenses. You're convinced that, so long as you prevent warfare, you can stop human injustice with it. But you're making the same mistake that the philosophers you studied made before you. And do you know what that is?"

"What would that be, Mr. Walker?" Relena asked haughtily.

"You think war causes injustice, but you ignore the historical reality that war is not a cause of injustice. Inequality, discrimination, immorality, humanity, these all cause injustice, as the Romefeller Foundation so effectively demonstrates. War is symptom of injustice, of human behavior. You cannot have universal disarmament without unilateral disarmament. In the meantime, what limits of human behavior should we be prepared to tolerate? The extermination of the indigenous Americans? The genocide of the Slavs and the Armenians? The enslavement of the continent of Africa? The Jewish Holocaust?" he asked, glancing at Disraeli before continuing. "The aggressive imperialism and colonialism of Japan, Britain, America, Russia, China, France, Belgium, Arabia, Israel, Brazil or Poland?"

"War made all those actions possible!" she argued, her voice now raised.

"No!" Walker shouted back loudly enough to draw attention. "War made them _convenient! _Human nature made it possible. And until you change human nature, you will find you start as many wars as your prevent in pursuit of your goal."

The tea room was quiet enough to hear a pin drop. Walker stared back at Relena.

"You're wrong, Mr. Walker."

Walker managed to unclench his jaw just long enough to sloppily shrug his shoulders. "Perhaps I am. Or perhaps I'm just looking at seven thousand years of the past. But that's history," he told her.

He pointed a finger forward at Relena, who stood before the banner the Romefeller Foundation's banner. "What you propose is philosophy. You are the highest form of philosopher, a politician-philosopher. Either of us could be wrong, and we will have to accept the consequences."

The volume of his voice lowered, while become more menacing, and he approached within a meter of Relena. Noin stirred from her place at the wall, but did not move otherwise. "You see, Ms. Relena, I share something in common with your father, and something that may still happen to those politician-philosophers down the hall as you'd like it: we've both made a mistake, and a Gundam has shown us the error of us ways by killing us."

Disraeli stared at Walker. In the years he'd known Walker, he'd never seen him glowering like this. Both of his hands were clenched into tight fists, causes creases in his white gloves. But otherwise, he remained very, very still. And he was _smiling_ now. It was almost impossible to detect, but he was, in fact, smiling.

Relena finally responded. "You're wrong," she told him, quietly, her head held high.

He stared down at her. "That'll make three of us. And since Victor Darlian is no longer with us, once you finally start changing human nature, it'll just be me then."

Walker let his smile expand across his face, in an eerie, uncomfortable grin. "Good day, Ms. Relena."

The flight lieutenant turned around and walked towards Noin and the exit. Disraeli hurried to follow him.

"Wait."

Walker stopped directly in front of the exit, despite his knowing better.

"So you _do _think human nature can be changed?"

He looked at her. His face had lost its creepy, wide smile. He looked just like how Relena'd first seen him, devoid of expression. "Of course I do, Ms. Relena. We're commissioned officers of the Order of the Zodiac. You couldn't ask for better instances of changing human nature."

He looked at Noin, his hands behind his back. "Wouldn't you agree, Noin?"

Noin just stared at Walker, unimpressed. Walker was actually a little pleased—finally, Noin knew how he felt about her. That in itself was a small victory.

Without another word, Walker walked straight for the exit, Disraeli following closely behind. Noin turned back at Yuy, who just shrugged conceitedly at her. After they'd put some distance between them and what had just happened, Disraeli spoke to Walker.

"Wow, Walker. Just…wow. You've been thinking, like, a _lot_."

"'Thinking a lot, _sir_,'" he corrected him, sounding tired and a little angry.

Disraeli grinned at him. This was the Walker he knew, and he was pleased at his return. "How about a drink?"

Walker nodded, not saying anything. A ten minute ride upriver to downtown Bremen, and they were in one the cities' numerous bars, drinking the local staple.

"Keep them coming _bitte_," Disraeli said, as a waiter set down two tall, frosted glasses with the word _Beck's_ emblazoned on them. "Say what you will about the Germans, they know beer."

"Not much of a _beer _person," Walker told him.

"Right, right, something about you that doesn't change. Just drink it, you'll feel better." He put Walker's hand on the glass and raised his own. "You _might _have won an argument with a fifteen year old girl. _La Chaim_."

"That's a horrible toast, Ben." Walker finished the second half of the glass. "As I said earlier, if you do believe in Scandinavian Pacifism, you should consider the Sanc Kingdom."

Disraeli stared at him, before finishing another third of his glass. "You really are full of surprises."

"Ben, we're OZ officers. Of the Alliance Speciali. We're the most educated officers in human history. You've been trained to think about things philosophically, it's not a coincidence. Call it…Treizism, if you'd care to."

Disraeli shook his head. "Way to take all the fun out of it. I think this is why no one likes to drink with you."

Walker smirked, then finished half his glass. "I like to prepare for things. Maybe you should too. That little talk reminded me that the day may come when you feel your commission isn't enough anymore. And that'll be your decision to make, to stop calling yourself OZ."

The two didn't speak until they'd both finished their first glass. Disraeli signaled for another round. "You seem awfully nonchalant about that."

The waiter came back with two more glasses. "I think Noin has already done just that. Which is why she's playing keeper to that girl. And so will Zechs, soon enough. Maybe I'm the abnormal one."

Disraeli nodded and glanced around. "I'll say, you don't even like beer," he said, picking up a leather bound menu and tossing it at him. Walker caught it and turned it right-side-up.

"That too," he admitted, looking at the menu. Suddenly, he blinked and looked at Disraeli, then laughed out loud.

"What?"

"I just got it," he admitted, still laughing and setting down the menu. "Pick your poison!"

Disraeli stared at Walker and laughed as well. "All right, that's more like it! Hey, Fritz, what's taking so long!?" He looked at Walker. "And you?"

"Sure, another. Or two. Or four. Hell, sod it, just keep them coming. Not winning an argument with a fifteen year old girl isn't something I'm so proud I'd want to remember it."

**IX**

When the sun rose over the border zone between Utah and Idaho, F/O Kaneshiro sat in her cockpit, watching the battlefield through the high powered telescopic lenses in her mobile suit's head compartment. Her black OZ-07AMS 'Aries' was poised on its knees behind a ridgeline, the camera motor whirling audibly in its housing.

Zooming in, she was able to make out a close range exchange between three main battle tanks and a lone moss green Alliance Leo that had been separated from its unit. Trying to close in where they'd be slightly less vulnerable to the Leo's autocannon, they rained down shots as rapidly as they could, their autoloaders running at full spin.

One shot stuck the Leo in the shoulder joint armor, knocking off the curved ERA plating in an explosion and staggering it slightly. The Leo quickly corrected and fired a burst at the tank, striking it twice: the tank violently shook and practically all of its external equipment—antennas, ERA blocks, periscopes, smoke dischargers—was blasted off, but it managed to start rolling backwards.

"Misift 3-1, recommend you fall back," she told them over her headset.

"_Negative Arrow Actual,_" he replied quickly. "_We've got him on the ropes. Just keep our return vector clear._" OZ's armored troops, while not enjoying nearly the sort of fame that the mobile suit troops did, were still a leap above their counterparts in what had been the Alliance, and in a whole different league than the inexperienced mechanized forces of the independent nations. The other two tanks kept pelting the Leo with shots, still focusing on its upper body. It took a few rounds, but a lucky APFSDS projectile punctured the camera housing, passing through the entire head compartment. The Leo jolted to a halt and the Kanna watched the explosive bolts blast the cockpit door off its hinges, only to have it bounce against the side of the autocannon, clutched close to the chest. The Alliance pilot emerged, hands over his head.

"_Headquarters, this is Misfit 3-2, enemy combatant has surrendered._"

"_Affirmative, Misfit 3-2. Arrow Actual?_"

Kanna snapped forward in her seat. "Go ahead HQ."

"_Climb to altitude seven hundred, heading one-seven-zero, for close air support_."

"Acknowledged, HQ. Deploying now," she mumbled, pulling the lever to close her cockpit hatch. _Should have stayed at the zero-G school at Annapolis. This 'Utah' place sucks. At least I know Walker's probably having a worse time._

**X**

After eleven beers and a cocktail between the two of him, Disraeli almost fell over with his chair; he was only saved embarrassment when Walker managed to snatch him by the maroon wool gabardine sleeve and pull him back.

"I think…you've had enough," he told him from behind six empty beer glasses.

"Me? I'm not the one who rode here on a motorcycle!" Disraeli countered.

Walker put a hand to his face. "We came here on a _boat_, you _putz._"

Upon hearing the word 'putz', Disraeli began laughing hysterically, smacking his hand against the table. They had another pair of beers when he finished laughing and Disraeli put a hand on Walker's shoulder instead, leaning across the table.

"So, Walker, tell the truth: where do you think we'll be in a year? Drinking champagne in D-120, toasting the Mars colonization effort?"

"That's exactly what Earth Sphere needs, more colonies."

"Look at it this way: even the Gundams can't drop Mars on Earth."

Walker have a drunken snort as a response.

"Fine then, Chief Engineer Explain-it-All Walker, where will we be?"

Walker actually seemed to think about the question for a few moments, his eyes wandering around the inside of the tavern. "If we do make good on our promise to arm the colonies, just as we've guaranteed the sovereignty of nations on Earth, the Alliance won't be the issue. It won't even be a _thing_. Intercolonial warfare might make the Gundams on Earth seem like child's play."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, think about it: a mobile suit carrying a nuclear weapon could destroy a city. What do you think it would take to create a Gundam that could obliterate a colony?"

Disraeli stared at Walker, his eyes widening. "…I am _so_ glad I'm not going into Outer Space."

Walker scoffed and shook his head. "We don't have a monopoly on mobile suits, but we do have one on weapons-grade fissile material. I hope."

"See, that's what I mean! First, you'll have to go back to the lieutenant colonel, and then that? What in your right mind possessed you to agree to that? A veteran like you could have stayed on Earth, with all the sane people!"

_Yes, like the pacifists, Gundams and Romefeller Foundation._"Thank you for putting it like that."

"Think about it: didn't the Iron Colonel always dominate the General Staff? And now here she is now, sweet-talking those colonials."

"_Colonel Une _is going to be OZ envoy for the Colonies?"

"So I've…heard…" he said, burping in the middle.

"I'm sure that won't end poorly at all."

Disraeli grinned. "If you're so convinced the _shiksa_'s going to get everyone killed, why go to Outer Space? I mean, I agree…which is why I'm not going into Outer Space." Abruptly, he let his head fall against the table, shaking the glasses. He raised his right arm and pointed at his head. "See what I mean? You have to _think _about these things, Walker."

Walker blinked at Disraeli twice before standing up. "Cheque, please."

**XI**

"Next please."

Waiting in the line for the customs desk at Napoléon Bonaparte Airport, Rachel Nina Bishop reached into her pocket and produced her documentation. Through the glass windows she could see the adjacent OZ airbase assigned to the nearby Corsica Mobile Suit Works, a forest of cranes and factories.

Rani occupied the occasionally awkward position between civilian and military personnel. As such, she could not freely travel OZ facilities and bases like an officer on leave could, in part because she wasn't _on _leave: she was between jobs. AJA and AJAFB shared the same territory, and was just an hour-long flight from London, making it the idea choice. At least, that's what she'd thought before she left.

On the information display to the left of the line, a warning scrolled by in multiple languages, eventually reaching English, underneath a digital a map of Western Europe.

**Please advise. **

**Due to the continued occupation of Marseilles by Ex-Alliance military forces, we are no longer offering flights to the following areas: **

**Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azur, Langeudoc-Rossillon, Piedmont and Liguria,****the Principality of Andorra.**

She ignored the advisory. _Just worry about getting to Bonaparte Airbase. From there, you can find out where Walker is. Just don't attract attention to yourself. _At the customs desk, she produced her passport.

"Your purpose of visit?"

"Vacation."

"One moment please," the customs worker took her passport and stepped further into the booth.

Rani cocked her head. Even though she was wearing a summer dress and hat, she was still looked like the photograph in her passport. While she waited, she opened her satchel and produced a piece of paper; carefully unfolding it, she read the first line: **Mandarin Oriental, Hong Kong.**

_Geeze, Walker, what the heck's wrong with you? _For the umpteenth time, she read the message intended for Michael Wú, written hastily on hotel stationary.

An annoyed businessman who'd been waiting in line behind her tapped his foot rapidly. "_Qu'est-ce qui te prend autant de temps?_" he snapped finally.

Rani looked up from her letter into the customs booth, which was suspiciously empty. She turned just in time to see the same customs official presenting what looked like her passport to a young Caucasian man her age, with long, straight black hair and blue-grey eyes. To her distress, he wore the hunter greens of an OZ junior officer.

"Hey!" she yelled, breaking her own recommendation. Both the customs worker and the junior officer turned, and the later blinked twice before bolting down the hallway. Rani wavered between angrily staring at the customs worker and then at the fleeing officer, before scrambling after the later, right through the security checkpoint.

"Get back here! You can't just take someone else's stuff!"

Had Rani gotten a look at the junior officer's face, she might have known he looked nearly as confused as she did, dashing down the hallway and past the other terminals. He darted up an escalator and slammed his fist against the emergency stop button at the top, forcing his pursuer to scrambler up at a slower pace.

"Hey, you run too fast!" she whined.

"Maybe you run too slow," he offered as he forced his way through the crowd.

"Get back here!"

The officer cadet ran through the hall before coming to a closed-off security checkpoint. Rani came to a halt four meters from him, her fists balled up. "End of the line!"

The officer cadet gave a patronizing shrug before putting her passport on nearby desk and sliding it across the counter and under the closed checkpoint gate. An older man in a dark suit and top hat caught it on the other hand, before holding it up and opening it. Rani stared at them, a little mystified.

"Rachel Nina Bishop. Born in Windsor, A.C. 177."

"That's cheating!" she finally snapped. The officer cadet just shrugged again, while the suit-wearing man flashed his glasses at her.

"I apologize. Let's even the playing field: Johan Acht."

"Edward Parsons."

**XII**

The same indefinite leave that allowed Walker to attend the Bremen Summit, and go out drinking, did not exempt him from he thought were his professional commitments to OZ.

"Your Excellency, Sir Oswald Walker, Flight Lieutenant of the Mobile Suit Troops, to see you," the butler announced firmly, his hands to his side.

Treize nodded as he carefully enjoyed his dinner, _fowl au béchamel_. The butler stood aside and Walker took his place, saluting as smartly as he could, doing his best to hide the six beers and one cocktail he'd imbibed a few hours earlier. Disraeli was on his way _back _to Bremen, having fallen asleep on the boat.

"Colonel, I'm sorry to interrupt you like this…" he began.

Treize shook his head in the middle of a bite. "You're not. Take a seat, Walker."

Walker carefully sat down while a footman delivered a plate so fast he didn't see it coming: oysters on the half shell with mignonette sauce. It looked very expensive.

"That Carson can make anyone sound important," he said abruptly, immediately regretting it: it was the sort of thing a drunk person would say. Treize smiled a little, apparently finding it amusing.

"Yes he can." He put down his fork. "I heard of your discussion with Relena Darlian earlier today."

Walker barely held back his disappointed sigh. He really wished he hadn't seen that.

"It's good to voice what's on your mind; we seem to have a problem doing that nowadays," Treize assured him, as Walker stared at the oysters and poked at one with the wrong fork. Like most people, he was accustomed to eating shellfish with his hands.

"It might be a holdover from the democratic period."

"Perhaps, sir," Walker offered, briefly stopping his poking.

Treize delicately cleaned his mouth with his napkin, then reached for something near plate: a leather binder, from which he took out the document's Walker had left his desk, with notes marked on them in red ink.

"I've been doing my share of thinking. Not enough on Epyon, but some, as you can see."

Walker studied the revised schematics. One of his proposals was how to arm the Gundam: a small diagram of OZ-00MS 'Tallgeese', with its materiel highlighted in different colors: its shield, dober gun, and beam carbine, all weapons that had later been used on the OZ-06MS 'Leo'. _Accordingly, there's nothing keeping Epyon from using Taurus's beam weapons, and since that's all the Taurus has, they can easily be raised in power._

However, Treize and circled all the weapons, with a small note in the margins, which he read. _'Ignore weapon development for now.'_

Walker tried to dodge the subject. "Mobile armor mode is feasible, even practical. It would serve the same function as Taurus fighter mode, with better armor placement."

"How would its acceleration compare?"

"In the atmosphere, it should be able to match the speed given a large enough power plant," he said, flipping through some of the pages. "In space, however…"

Walker was cut off when Treize raised a hand, startling him a little.

"Don't let it bother you too much. I have no right to take away from leave before you're sent into Outer Space."

"I…understand sir, but I would like to add one thing: having long-term access to the new Taurus mobile suits should fill some of the gaps further."

Treize seemed amused at Walker's fixation on the plans for what had come to be called 'Gundam Epyon'. While he continued to prattle on about his various concerns about the design, Treize held his wineglass in his hands, eying the strong cabernet, letting he continue talking and eating.

"…which reminds me: I've meant to ask if you'd have a list of potential pilots, both for operation and for the trials."

Treize smiled a little bit before sipping the wine. "Mr. Carson, would you mind offering Walker some of this excellent cabernet?"

The butler glanced at Walker, who suddenly looked more than a little nauseous, hanging his head down. He'd picked up on Walker's state—the flight lieutenant wasn't the first officer who'd drunk too much on leave, not by a long shot.

"Actually, sir, I felt that…"

"No thank you," Walker mumbled quietly.

Treize nodded. "I don't believe I told you, but I was hoping that Zechs would attend this summit. Perhaps air his own objections to how history was unfolding."

Treize gave a sad smile, a rarity for him. "An unrealistic hope, I know."

"I…don't think so, Colonel."

"I appreciate your understanding, Flight Lieutenant, but there are people much more deserving of it than me."

Having taken a hint, Walker thanked the butler for the dinner and excused himself. Treize, as was his habit, lingered on at the table after dismissing Carson when the footmen cleared the table and turned down the lights. Polishing off the decanter, he enjoyed the silence for ten minutes before glancing over his shoulder.

"Doctor, you went through all the trouble to sneak in here, what purpose does it serve for you to sit in the darkness?"

Running a gloved hand through her hair, Eva Cebotari stepped out from the shadows along the wall and took Walker's seat at the table.

"Besides, it's not as though we have nothing to talk about. I heard you enjoyed your antics with Dr. Yuy and Relena Darlian."

Eva just smiled at him with those thin, blood-red lips.

Treize changed the topic. "I'd like you to inform the Military Commissariat of that matter we discussed in May."

"Your appearance celebrating the reestablishment of television broadcasting to the Colonies?" Eva asked in her usual, breathy voice.

Treize nodded. "I've settled on that 'Earth in the Evening' program. With Lady Une leading the diplomatic mission, I'd like the Military Commissariat make the arrangements."

"We'd be happy to, your Excellency, but I think you're avoiding the matter at hand…"

Treize closed his eyes. "Not tonight, Doctor."

Eva smirked and rose from her chair and adjusted her white uniform gloves. "I know you well enough, Treize Khushrenada, that there's little point in trying to change your mind."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author's Notes:<em>**

_So this ended up being a lot different than what I planned. The one or two of you who read the last chapter before this one was published will note a seemingly misplaced scene with Rani, Acht and Parsons. For that I apologize—I misjudged the length of time between the Bremen summit and the destruction of Gundam Zero-One (actually more than a week), and modified the last chapter to account for that (essentially removing that scene—that's the only real change). I'm actually enjoying this one more, and the scene in Lake Victoria will appear in the next chapter, along with the destruction of Wing Gundam. Right now, we're still in Episode 14. And yes, 'Master Aircrew' isn't one of my usual syntax errors, it's actually the equivalent of warrant officer in the Royal Air Force._

_Some new developments in _The Glory of Losers—_I'm still waiting for the bombshell of how Une brought the Gundams to surrender (and then vanished from the military). I'm thinking it's going to be the same. One very minor change is that Tallgeese now carries a large lance with its shield (the new weapon introduced to it). I have no idea how he's going to use it, but once I find out, I'll probably make the appropriate modifications._

_One thing I know is that I need to worry about coherent structure; it might not seem it, but I do have an idea of what I want to do, but I do have to keep my eye on the ball with all these little stories come together. Thanks for reading!_


	22. The Order to Destroy Zero-One

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 22 **– The Order to Destroy Zero-One****

It rained late that night at Stadland and Bremen. Having done what she set out to do when she came to Bremen, Relena Darlian sat in her state room in Stadland Castle, watching the rain pour on a decommissioned OZ-07AMS 'Aries', erected on pylons for display on the grounds.

"I could burn this whole place to the ground, right now. But God would never forgive me for it."

"And you couldn't," a voice told her harshly.

Relena immediately knew it wasn't Noin, though the voice belonged to a woman of the same age.

"Why couldn't I?"

Still in her red cocktail dress, Shalua Yuy entered the state room and put her left hand on the royal coat hung on a nearby chair.

"How do you think I got here?" she asked, addressing the back of Relena's head.

"You followed me."

"Please give you keeper, ex-Lieutenant Noin, more credit," she said, staring at her with her one open eye. "Where she is?"

"I wanted a moment to myself."

"Does she know your room is bugged? Or is she as oblivious as you?"

Relena finally turned to look at her, her voice becoming less fearfully hostile. "You're from the Yuy Foundation, aren't you? Are you also being monitored by OZ?"

"If you mean their security division, that's likely." Yuy took a seat and crossed her legs, putting her left hand on her forehead. "So, you burn down Stadland Castle. Aside from destroying a building of some historic value, what have you done? You would never harm anyone involved in the management of the Romefeller Foundation. Their staff and OZ would see to that; if your goal was to burn a few butlers and soldiers alive, then you should come out and say so."

Relena sighed. "I suppose you're right. Would you help me?"

Yuy took her time answering. _She doesn't get it, does she? _"That depends on your goals."

"You're from the colonies, aren't you? They're the same as yours, as the Gundams."

"But mine aren't the same as the Gundams. Why would I share a common interest with the defenders of the old Alliance?"

Relena stepped forward. "But they're not that! They're only fighting OZ."

"As you say, they're _only _fighting OZ." Yuy stood up and turned to the door. "Before you bring your wrath down on your enemies, maybe you should learn who they are first."

Some distance away in a security room, Dr. Eva Cebotari listened to the conversation between Relena Darlian and Shalua Yuy via the eavesdropping devices planted throughout the state rooms, using one elbow to tap her saber against the side of the chair.

_If we're letting Relena run free, our goal should be self-confinement: force Relena to remain in a location, of her own accord, where she can be managed. _Putting her arms behind her head, she stuck her large chest out and sighed quietly. _Treize values Relena. Perhaps I should begin seeing her as an asset rather than a nuisance, and reevaluate our approach to her._

She cocked her head a little bit. _Or not, and she's just a particularly problematic fifteen-year-old princess. _

She tapped a single finger against a nearby keyboard. _Silly girl. _

In another wing of the castle, Treize enjoyed his last glass of Cabernet for the evening before he retired. Normally he did not drink this late, and if he did, he did not do it out in the open, but he was troubled, even if his face hid it. It had been Dr. Cebotari, the long-legged, bosomy major whom he'd known for longer than he'd ever thought he would. She had told him something that cut to his core, as much as he cared not to admit it.

_"I know you well enough, Treize Khushrenada, that there's little point in trying to change your mind…But tell me, why do you so fear any harm coming to that little princess?"_

He had little idea how old Eva was—indeed, she was young for a Candidate of Sciences, even if that was the first post-graduate degree. She was probably no older than he was, but like everything else about her, Eva's age was a closely guarded secret, courtesy of Eva's own efforts.

_So then, why do I fear? _"Perhaps I'll be punished for my…profanity…towards God. In which case, I should come to expect an appropriate penalty," he said, thinking out loud. He rested his arms on the balcony. "Then again, God's merely an imagined figure created by humans."

**II**

Heero Yuy, the Gundam pilot who had killed Field Marshal Noventa at New Edwards Air Force Base just a few weeks earlier, replayed that particular killing in his head, over and over.

"Pull over here."

The cargo truck they were riding stopped on a street corner in the neighborhood of Saint-Loup in Marseille, Frace and another Gundam pilot, Trowa Barton, undid his seat belt.

"Who's this guy?" Heero asked, gesturing at the uniformed Alliance junior officer waiting at a nearby outdoor café.

"Captain Lefèvre, commander of the local garrison. If anyone knows where Sylvia Noventa is, it'd be him."

Heero nodded. Since emerging from his month-long coma, he'd spent his time searching for Marshal Noventa's descendants—the only ones he could locate were his grandchildren. He had three grandsons: one was dead, another was a prisoner-of-war and the third was with the OZ Space Forces. That left one granddaughter, who'd they tracked down to Marseille. _I suppose this is my best chance to make amends. Assuming OZ hasn't tracked us to here. _

"You're talking to him?"

"I'm going to make him an offer he won't refuse," Trowa told him, before giving a rare smile.

OZ had already discovered the Gundam pilot on the Network, while he was searching for Sylvia Noventa. The Military Commissariat had concluded a Gundam had been smuggled into the frozen conflict zone in Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azur. The region remained a nuisance to OZ, as the French Republic angrily demanded all Alliance troops be removed from its territory and its own forces were stretched across Earth and space. Even of the entire conflict zone could not be secured, the West European Air Army ordered an available squadron from the 98th Legion of Honor Corsican Airborne Battalion to clear resistance for Marseille for an amphibious landing by marines.

Inspector Johan Acht and Officer Cadet Edward Parsons had planned to leave Corsica for Lake Victoria after locating a witness to their investigation, Bishop. Then the war caught up with them when they were presented with the data.

"It looks like the Nineteenth Intelligence Company finally found out something in advance," Acht observed.

"I'm _extremely _sorry for this, Major!" The F/O, a young Korean with a military haircut, apologized profoundly while bowing. "If we were not anticipating a Gundam raid, according to data from the Military Commissariat, I wouldn't impose like this."

Acht adjusted his top hat nodded, appearing sympathetic. "No, I understand. Sometimes it's easy to forget about the war in our line of work."

"We also knew you were the commander of Jagdstaffeln 88."

"Yes, but I don't bring my _entire_ unit on me for investigations," he replied sardonically.

"We have an Aries squadron standing by, with ten machines, but Lieutenant Patel has the measles!"

Acht sighed, glancing over at Parsons, who was standing next to an impatient-looking Rachel Nina Bishop. "It can't be helped." He turned back to the F/L. "If you have a spare uniform or flight suit…"

"Chief Inspector," Parsons interrupted him. "May I take over?"

"Excuse me? Parsons, did you finish the air combat course at Lake Victoria?"

"Yes, sir." He was still an officer cadet because, rather than graduate into the Mobile Suit Troops, he'd gone into the Military Commissariat, where he would eventually graduate to Second Lieutenant. "I have my certification, if you need it."

"How many hours do you have in an Aries?"

"Around a hundred and thirty out of a hundred and eighty total."

The Korean F/O mumbled something under his breath. Acht had an idea what he meant by it. _The _annual_ average in the Mobile Suit Troops is two-fifty. It used to be higher in the Specials. Parsons has been certified for two to three years. For a political officer, that's a good number of hours. But for a pilot…_

"He's logged more hours this year than I have," Acht told him finally. "Since 'Daybreak', the Military Commissariat has largely given up on AFH," he said, referring to the annual flight hours a pilot had.

"I have no right to be choosy. Report to hangar ready room as soon as possible, cadet."

After the F/L had left, Acht turned back to Parsons. "You really want to do this?"

The sincerity had left Parson's voice. "I hate these goddamn things. Every time we have a job to do, someone has to fuck it up for us. I'm getting _really _tired of it," he said, removing his folding cap. "But I'll be damned if I'm going to be humiliated by some Gundam who decided to show up at Marseilles for the hell of it!"

Acht got the picture: humiliated in the sense that, if Acht was K.I.A., the ongoing investigation would be stalled. _I'd rather not say something as trite as 'Good luck to you'. _"Well, you've made up your mind. There's nothing wrong with that."

"Should I expect you in Lake Victoria?"

Acht chuckled, before glancing back at Rani. "Please, we're not in that much of a rush. Whatever's left of Gundam Zero-One will still be there in a few days." He leaned towards Parsons. "In the meantime, you keep your mind on one thing: the battlefield. And if I may offer a suggestion?"

Parsons sighed. "What is it?"

"Get a silk scarf with your goggles and helmet."

"Why?"

"It'll keep your neck from chaffing," he told him plainly.

**III**

Many hundred uniformed men and women in OZ—soldiers, officers, and NCOs—stood before a chipped, weather-worn statue of Koffi Anon, an international leader from a few centuries earlier, built in the heyday of the UESA. The statue rose awkwardly out of the drill grounds at the Lake Baikal Space Center, and in front of it a podium had been erected. A portable lift was available, but it was voted against, seeming more appropriate for actual work than a military sendoff, thought it did prove useful for a military journalist who took a photograph for the occasion.

In his crimson uniform and with a Japanese medal hanging from his neck, Lieutenant Colonel Chuang Li-Kuo of the 2nd Order of the Chrysanthemum Space Division—formerly the 18th Order of the Chrysanthemum Airborne Division, now dissolved, and before that the 18th Special Airborne Division—stood before the pilots of the from twelve squadrons from the Eighteenth. They were joined by another mobile suit battalion and three non-mobile battalions: intelligence, engineers and a supply battalion.

Together, they accounted for second mobile suit division to be deployed in space. Earlier that day, Chuang had been briefed on the Space Forces' order of battle.

_"This will bring our mobile suit troop strength to thirty-two Taurus squadrons, approximately eight battalions before losses, along with the First Recon Battalion. Two Leo battalions attached to those divisions, along with a half-dozen separate Leo battalions, roughly."_

_"Roughly?"_

_"The Space Mobile Suit Troops aren't deploying the Leo anymore. Units are being folded together to replace losses, or disbanded entirely. It's just that going from twelve battalions to six looks really bad out of context."_

_"That puts our Taurus deployment somewhat over four hundred mobile suits between two divisions and the Recon Battalion._"

Chuang glanced down at the podium at his new adjutant, Flight Officer Cage. Like all officers under the rank of flight lieutenant, he now wore the insignia of the OZ Space Forces on his cap, a stylized armored knight's helm with a pointed top. The same insignia adorned the flags on either side of the podium. "I suppose we should begin."

Cage nodded in agreement, and Chuang looked over the rows of junior and ranking officers, "Comrades, I am honored to join you in Outer Space."

He leaned towards the old-fashion microphone. "Tomorrow at 0200 hours, the armada here will lift off and bring us to the fortress _Barge_, where our long journey will come to an end and a new one begins."

He scanned the procession before him. "Many of you I do not know. I hope I have the chance to change that. For the rest of you, I have had the privilege of serving with you through world war and world revolution. The Eighteenth Special Division, no matter what names or honors attached to it, has been closer to me than any family or any child. I could not be more pleased to join you in Outer Space, where I can only hope that half the glory we have already obtained might be waiting for us. Glory to the Order of the Zodiac, and glory to the Mobile Suit Troops."

"_Oorah!_" hundreds of voices cried out, in the Russian style. Among them was Flight Lieutenant Ogasawara Emi, who remained standing at attention as Chuang saluted firmly before leaving the podium. Cage yelled out the next command. "Dismissed!"

Ogasawara Emi relaxed, stretching her arms over her head and quickly and adjusting the gloves. Her uniform also felt a little tight over her chest, or perhaps just too starched.

"Not a bad speech," she commented offhandedly as turned to walk back with the rest of her unit.

"We've got so many loading operations, at least it was short." Next to her, Flight Lieutenant Omar Clarkson adjusted his gloves and followed her. Clarkson was an anomaly—he was pegged as a Taurus unit commander, and he had an outstanding combat record, but he was born in AC 147, making him more than twice the age of most of his comrades. He was a lean, muscular man with grey hair and neat, unpretentious mustache.

"Oh, come on, Clarkson. Are you really that worried about the launch?" Emi asked, smiling.

"Putting aside the fact that the liftoff stage is obvious where we're at our most vulnerable, do you really think a Gundam attack is an impossibility?"

_Maybe it's just that mustache of yours makes everything you sound angry. _"Do you think it's likely?" she asked, shrugging informally.

Clarkson's mustache twitched, a subtle indication that he didn't care to talk about it any further. "If you're asking whether I'd miss out on history, no, I wouldn't. My great-great-great grandfather witnessed the fall of communism. My great-grandfather watched the fall of capitalism. I still plan to witness the fall of the Alliance."

Emi had to hold back the laughter, putting a hand to her head. _That would only be true if you were more than a hundred years old. _"I understand you, Clarkson."

He stuck out his hand. "Good luck to you, Lieutenant."

"And to you," she said, shaking it.

Emi smiled sympathetically as she watched him leave. _Clarkson's a top pilot, and if he was twenty years younger, he'd be in the Recon Battalion himself. Then again, how many fifty-year-old pilots do you see in the Mobile Suit Troops. I suppose if he was that good, he'd have been promoted to a colonel by now._

With her fringe shielding her eyes, she looked up at the large heavy lift vehicle, a short but massive spacecraft powered by a number of banks of nuclear gas-core rocket engines distributed between two stages, each one capable of delivering five mobile suits, or a few hundred tonnes of cargo, anywhere in Earth Sphere before refueling. Separate from them were the Taurus rapid-deployment carriers that had been manufactured on Lunar factories.

"You're really looking forward to this aren't you?"

She looked back to see the shorter Flight Officer Tsujimoto Nabiki waiting, arms behind her back, smiling at her.

"Let me guess: you're worried too?"

"No, but I wouldn't mind being enlightened as to what could go wrong. I've never left Earth before. Much less on one of these monstrosities."

Emi thought about it. "Heavy lift vehicles like these are slow but safe alternatives to deployment-capable carriers. Their nuclear engines, while massive, are as clean as typical rocket engines while being more reliable, but there could be problems. Hydrogen propellant also cools the engine, and a failure of the pumps could lead to serious complications midflight. Or the magnetic containment field could fail catastrophically and lead to a nuclear explosion sending nuclear fuel pellets everywhere. And that's all without a Gundam attack."

Her eyes closed, Nabiki nodded as Emi kept staring at the H.L.V., then stepped next to the taller woman and put a hand around her waist. "I guess that's the thing about technology, isn't it?"

"I suppose it is," she replied, ignoring the hand around her waist.

With her free hand, Nabiki reached into her trouser pocket and produced a small wood rectangle the size of an identification card in a colorful cloth sleeve, hanging from a string, which she shook in front of Emi.

"Is that a…_omamori_?" she asked. "I can't remember the last time I saw one of those."

"Blessed for protection of space travel, I swear."

Emi turned to her companion. "…and I take it you want me to buy from you."

Holding it with her thumb, she raised three fingers and grinned mischievously, eyes closed. "Heh heh…"

"...you seriously think you're going to make money off me?"

She opened her eyes and smiled sympathetically. "You can't blame a girl for trying."

Emi gave a deep sigh, while F/O Indira Syed Khan, curious about the conversation, glanced at the amulet-like charm hanging from Nabiki's hand. "I'll buy it."

She looked quickly at both of them. "I mean, we're all going to be in the same spacecraft, aren't we?"

Nabiki grinned, now at Indira, as she looked for her pocketbook and Emi shook his head.

**IV**

Marseille's most famous long-term guest, Sylvia Noventa, was on the mind of many. The Military Commissariat's report had a telling story, one of interest to both the Alliance, who was trying to convince Sylvia to leave, and OZ, who were enormously inconvenienced by her presence and wished she would.

Prior to launch, Acht had given an old fashion pre-battle intelligence briefing, just like the one's he'd given twenty years earlier in the Alliance. _"Outside of town, on the scenic Calanque, was Noventa's summer home, now an Alliance early-warning outpost. If Sylvia had any sense of self-preservation, she'd be there. But Luxembourg seems to think she's in the Alliance Consulate in Saint-Loup, in the middle of the highest concentration of mobile weapons. Any harm coming to her is unacceptable—like all the Noventas, she's a sacred calf of the ancien régime."_

"If it weren't the case, we could fire a few missiles and be done with it," Parsons mumbled in the cockpit of his Aries, his hair hidden behind goggles and a leather helmet. He and the other machines remained in tight formation.

"_You really think they've enlisted a Gundam? Don't they know what happened in Xinjiang?_"

Parsons assumed this was directed at him. "_We'd better hope this isn't a repeat of that. They might have had half the machines we had at Xinjiang, but I don't think ten Aries are a match for a dozen Leos _and _a Gundam._"

"_Cut the chatter and loosen up, incoming triple-A!_"

As largely harmless anti-aircraft artillery began filling up the sky, Captain Lefèvre resigned himself to his inability to evacuate Sylvia Noventa.

"You're sure it's OZ?" There was still hope if it was the regular French military.

"Yes, we confirm ten Aries mobile suits!"

"They think they can assault Marseille with just ten machines?" he asked skeptically, turning back to Sylvia. "Don't worry, we have no intention of giving up that easily. Get yourself somewhere safe."

He turned back to the sergeant who'd briefed him. "Keep them away from the residential areas, especially this one, and commence counterattack!"

Above Marseille, three Aries flights—including Parsons' four-machine flight—descended on the OZ-06MS 'Leos' through the largely ineffectual anti-aircraft fire, brandishing their 90 mm chain rifles and AMGM pods in their manipulators. As the mobile suits on the ground positioned themselves, they delivered a withering barrage of fighters across the streets among the apartment blocks in Saint-Loup.

"_Go in low, get the flak to shoot each other!_"

"Affirmative, Frelon Actual," Parsons acknowledged, extending his flaps, throttling down, skimming just a few meters over the street, and opening fire on early model Leos, identifiable by their lack of additional shoulder ball-joint armor and different kneecap sections.

"_So this is what guerrilla warfare is like in our age._"

"Our orders are to destroy every last Leo troops and clear the way for the marines!"

"_Frelon 1-4, watch your altitude, you're entering the crossfire!_"

On his forward monitor, Parsons watched as a Leo exploded catastrophically in the middle of the avenue, scattering fiery wreckage everywhere. The noise and blinding flashes from fire distracted him momentarily—he pulled back on his flight sticks and rose out of the low crossfire to above 40 meters altitude.

"_Frelon 1-4, watch it, you're starting to get careless!_"

"Sorry, Frelon Actual, I'm getting a lot of fire here…" Parsons yelled back, firing a pair of AMGM into a formation of three Leos, cratering the ground between them.

"_Frelon 1-4, switch to chain and link up with Frelon 1-3!_"

"Affirmative!" He located Frelon 1-3 on his HUD and managed to avoid fire while linking up with it. The two machines strafed a position three Leo troops with APFSDS fire, striking them from above. A few seconds of concentrated fire were enough to tear them to pieces, but two more mobile suits down the avenue took advantage of the distraction and aimed their dober guns.

"_Frelon 1-4, jink!_"

Parsons didn't even know he'd been spotted until the sensor alarm in his cockpit went off and he immediately pulled the stick to the side before the Alliance pilot could correct his aim. The officer cadet felt a violent shake as 360 mm French-made high explosive shell obliterated his port wing turbine.

"I'm hit!"

An experienced pilot could have recovered easily, either bringing the Aries to a low hover above the ground with his two lower turbines, or even used the remaining five to keep it in flight. Even a inexperienced one could have landed on his legs. But Parsons was neither, so when his machine stalled from low speed and he did the only thing he knew how to: he made an emergency landing on the cobblestone street below, knocking himself around in the cockpit. His machine actually faired well—the Aries was designed for precisely this sort of thing—and with the exception of that particular turbine, his systems were largely nominal. He wasn't, and the sudden stop and a half-second of over 14 Gs left him feeling nauseous.

"Now what've done?" he lamented aloud. His inexperienced surfaced again, and when he confirmed there were no enemy machines in the vicinity, he pulled the lever to open the main hatch and undid his restraints.

_How bad's the damage? _His thoughts were interrupted when he found someone was standing directly before him.

Trowa Barton then punched Edward Parsons in the stomach. It didn't seem that severe initially, but taking two steps backwards, Parsons fell backwards and stopped moving.

While Parsons was lying on his back, Barton and the other Gundam pilot helped themselves to his machine's communications suite. Parsons used the headset built into his helmet, so there was a spare headset sitting on a hook, which Heero Yuy took.

"_Looks like the Alliance's Leo troops are retreating underground,_" one of Frelon Flight's officers relayed.

"_That must be where the main force is! Frelon Flight, converge!_"

"The underground, huh? Sort of obvious."

Yuy sighed. "Don't worry about me, I'm no good to you with this arm. Just make sure OZ doesn't realize we have a Gundam here."

Above them, the Aries regrouped, having annihilated the Leo troops still in the open.

The voice from Corsica was a little garbled inside the tunnel. "_Frelon Actual, this is HQ. Can you report on the two machines lost?_"

"_Frelon 1-4 lost a wing turbine and ditched in Saint-Loup, but reported his machine survived. Hostile at two-two-seven got a lucky shot on Frelon 2-1, blew out his power plant, but he hit the silk._"

"_Affirmative, Frelon Actual. Marines inbound, ETA one-one-zero. Clear out the remaining Alliance Leos in the underground canals immediately._"

**V**

"Replay eight-ten-two to eight-five-three."

Hunching over his knees in a folding chair, Ali Kijana Mazuri stared at the projector screen pulled down over the office windows. The video he was watching, cam footage from an Alliance Pioneer Leo defending a space station from colonial space fighters, went back to 8:12.

Mazuri watched closely as the pilot used careful bursts from his beam rifle to either force the fighter to break off or be destroyed.

_The colonials used to hold torpedo fire until extremely close range—as little as a hundred meters—probably to avoid having them shot down. _He watched the 41 seconds of footage before the video paused.

"Bring up file C-eleven." The image on the projector changed to a four-machine Pioneer flight barreling through the barrage of defensive beam fire around a space colony. They were escorting massive rectangular mobile suit carriers to docking points along the colony's outer walls. An unfortunate Pioneer Leo was struck in the cranium by a beam and immediately broke off.

The "sounds" of beam fire and explosions—Mazuri was hearing what the earlier pilot had heard, 360-positional sound effects created by audio computers that compensated for the inability of sound to travel through vacuum—were interrupted when the door swung open.

"Flight Officer Mazuri?"

"_Habiri_," he mumbled back, not taking his eyes of the projector screen.

"Sir," a junior staff officer saluted from the door. "You're needed at Hangar 7 immediately. Keep your normal suit on."

Mazuri grabbed his helmet and awkwardly hurried to Hangar 7, still wearing his sky blue normal suit: an EVA-capable military pressure suit made of synthetic polymers and plastics. Inside, he spotted a VTOL mobile suit carrier, with a single royal blue Leo being loaded aboard it. Underneath, a flight officer waved him over.

"Mazuri, hurry up, we're about to launch!"

"What's going on, Bradley?"

"Telemetry from _Barge _reported an unidentified shuttle descending into Earth over the Arctic Circle. Squadron Commander Nattono confirmed it making its descent over the NAC point, not projecting its IFF. We're labeling it a hostile bogey, likely Alliance."

"Why didn't this Nattono character shoot it down then?"

"Don't ask me."

_Don't ask me, don't ask me. And here I thought Walkerisms were a bad thing. _People failing to explain things sufficiently was a substantially bigger problem in the military than people over-explaining things, Mazuri had decided. "Estimated intercept time?"

"Seventeen minutes. We're intercepting north of the Barents Sea, at Eighty-Eleven by Sixty Two-Two. Taking eleven minutes to enter the landing zone, that gives you six minutes to locate and shoot down the target."

Mazuri stared at Bradley.

"Well, then, you'd better get on the bloody aircraft!" Bradley snapped as Mazuri scuttled away and to a nearby ladder. He adjusted his glasses sand donned his helmet before climbing up into the aircraft. Almost as soon as he was in the main hold, a member of the ground crew folded up the ladder and closed the hatch behind him.

"_Better buckle up, Centurion Actual. The airfield is clear and we've already got permission to take off."_

"It just occurred to me," he yelled out, addressing the speaker system. "Wouldn't we be better off scrambling interceptors?"

"We've got two Mikoyan interceptors already in the air, but they're running out of flight time. They'll be covering you." In the flight deck, two pilot officers in baggy dark grey flight suits and OZ insignia donned their bulky HUD helmets.

"_Were they out on exercise_?"

"I think so, sir," the pilot announced, adjusting her helmet and leaning forward on the throttle column.

"_So are they armed?_"

She glanced at her co-pilot. She just shrugged back. "…I don't know, sir,"

"_Acknowledged._"

In a minute, the VTOL carrier had taxied onto the main runway and taken off with its afterburners. Mazuri climbed the short ladder up into the cockpit of his Leo, suspended from the ceiling and awaiting deployment. Strapping himself into the seat, he closed the cockpit door behind him and let the cockpit console drop into place.

Checking the seals on his helmet, he powered up the ultracompact fusion reactor and the cockpit systems. The display screens switched to the red-lit interior of the carrier. "Centurion Mothership, this is Centurion Actual. I am ready to be deployed."

"_Affirmative, Centurion Actual. We've just been joined by Sokol Flight. Deploying in thirty._"

"Acknowledged, Mothership." He switched off his radio. "Beam sabers and a dober gun. Isn't this what Zechs Merquise intercepted Zero-One over Japan in?"

He smiled. "Well, so long as this isn't a Gundam. And whose idea was it to drop a Leo out of an aircraft without its parachute pack? What a show-off." Hearing the rear cargo doors open behind him, he braced himself for the familiar feeling of being released for an airborne operation.

A few seconds later, exactly that happened and the light went green. "_Centurion Actual deploying. Good luck!_"

_A few dozen pilots at Yuri Gagarin AFB, let's hope they made the right choice picking me._ A few seconds later and he was falling out of the back of the VTOL carrier at near the speed of sound. His machine grasped the dober gun mounted on right shoulder joint with both manipulators, lifting it up and extending the barrel, then switched on the secondary camera mounted far back on the mounting. A quick burst from his rear thruster rockets set him on a steady course, and the enemy bogey was marked on his radar.

"Closing in on the target, twenty-seven hundred." As he waited to come into a comfortable range, he could actually see the unidentified shuttle, a tiny grey dot in the clear Arctic slightly above the horizon. As it expanded, he checked the ballistics report on his targeting computer: he was using semi-armor piercing high-explosive incendiary rounds in 355 mm caliber, the most common type of ammunition fired from dober guns in a fairly typical caliber. The rifled barrel of the siege gun gave it the spin needed for some accuracy, though it did reduce its stopping power slightly.

"Within engagement range, firing!" He squeezed the trigger and fired a single shot that shook his entire machine in free fall. It disappeared past the target, vanishing in a cloud layer below.

"_Centurion Actual, no hit_," one of the aircraft in Sokol flight reported.

"_Yeah, I noticed, thanks!_" He fired his starboard thruster and spun himself over, lining up for another shot. He adjusted his aim slightly and squeezed again, sending another shell in the direction of shuttle. There was a flash, and a visible fireball in the distance.

"_Centurion Actual, hit!_"

Modern aircraft and transorbital spacecraft were not only aerodynamic, but highly compartmentalized—losing a wing would cripple an aircraft, but did not necessarily mean a catastrophic explosion, as it had during the nuclear age. The shuttle spun wildly out of control as it fell, dropping to subsonic speeds and spewing oil and fluids while beginning to fragment.

"Bogey inbound!" he shouted, shifting his mobile suit to slow down—the Leo had no flaps or other mechanical methods to slow its descent, and all he could do was fire his forward thruster rocket and make his machine less aerodynamic. The distance counter on his HUD rapidly plummeted as the aircraft kept spinning uncontrollably into a stall.

"_Shit!_" He flipped a switch on his weapons computer, firing the explosive bolts used to separate the dober gun from its shoulder mounting, and then drew one of his beam sabers with his right manipulator. The glowing pink loop of charged particles held together in a magnetic field barely appeared when the shuttle was practically on top of him, a whirling fireball, and he cut his way through the cabin. There was a blur of something—a piece of wreckage or something else—spinning past his forward camera. The two parts separated behind him and explode violently.

"Holy…holy God! Centurion Mothership, this is Centurion Actual! Confirming the bogey was an enemy shuttle, two large thruster nozzles, design matched Alliance Space Forces transorbital shuttle!"

"_Centurion Actual, did you get a look at its markings?_"

"Negative!"

"_What about the contents? Did anything fall out?_"

Mazuri swallowed nervously, as he reached forward and struck a switch labeled for his back payload, deploying his parachute pod. The drogue chute was deployed and he started to slow down. "If it did, I couldn't tell you. We're going to have to check the video for that."

**VI**

"_So, the MS Troops went in even with the Gundam warning? Didn't they get the report from Xinjiang? No survivors!_"

"_Apparently they knew what they were getting into. Hell, the Gundam didn't even stay after shooting down Frelon Flight!_"

"Gahh!" Parsons jolted up in the bed he was lying in, before clutching his stomach. When his vision restored, he found himself surrounded by men of the 40th Commando Royal Marines, part of the OZ's Internal Army, in full battle gear. He was in courtyard in the center of an apartment block, in an improved field hospital.

"Colour, sir, the M.S. troops officer is awake!" a nearby corporal yelled, before turning back to him and tapping the rim of his helmet. "Just a second, sir, Colour Hewett will be right with you."

A few moments later, an older looking marine wearing the same dark grey body armor and urban warfare fatigues, approached the bed before saluting sharply

"Colour Sergeant A. Hewett," he explained, introducing himself, with a strong Welsh accent.

"Officer Cadet Edward Parsons," he replied, still holding his stomach. He glanced over the walls of the apartment block and saw the sun had recently set. "What…what happened? What time is it?"

The marine dragged a metal chair over to the bedside and sat down in it. "Well, long run, the 40 Commando landed to the south at Montredon and the remaining Alliance surrendered, with minimal casualties. Short run, your mobile suit lost one of its turbines and crashed in a neighborhood not far from here. It looks like you were rattled pretty badly in the crash, we found you unconscious just outside it."

"Someone punched me."

"Beggin' pardon?"

"Someone hit me really hard in the stomach," Parsons repeated, his eyes widening as he went through what happened. He turned to the marine stiffly. "Were there any other survivors from the squadron?"

The colour sergeant winced. "Ah, well, there was you and one other, who's still unconscious. We found him imbedded with his machine in the wall of a café."

"And the rest of the flight?"

"Eight K.I.A., almost all of them were in the underground canals, Alliance must've set up an ambush down there."

"And what about Noventa?" he shouted, grabbing the marine's armored vest.

"Noventa? Oh, you mean the Sylvia girl? Right, we picked her up about an hour ago, at the military cemetery just out of town. Little strange, that one."

At his insistence, a limping Parsons was led to the Battalion HQ for 40 Commando, where Sylvia Noventa was being held alongside the almost thirty Alliance prisoners-of-war, mostly officers. A Royal Marine had to help him out of the jeep and into the building, where he found he found an OZ physician wearing a white coat over her hunter green uniform treating an Alliance Captain who was uninjured except for a grievous injury to his arm, likely caused by shrapnel from a grenade.

"Where's Noventa?"

The physician stood up, a slim, nervous looking woman with large eyeglasses and freckles under her eyes. "This is...Captain Lefèvre, sir. He was commander of the ex-Alliance Forces…"

"Don't care!" Parsons snapped back. "Where is Noventa?"

Sylvia Noventa was waiting in the kitchen of the small hotel that had been the Alliance's headquarters and now served the same purpose as OZ. Knocking aside pots and pans, Parsons stomped up to her, causing the Royal Marines guarding her to jump.

"Where is he?" he demanded.

Noventa said nothing.

"Where is he? Where is the Gundam pilot?"

"A Gundam was here?" a Royal Marine asked. "When, where?"

"In the Underground," he snapped. "Green sweater and Khakis."

They stared at him. "That was what he was wearing!" he snapped back.

Parsons turned back to Noventa, fire in his eyes. "Obviously, he's left. An eight-tonne killing machine, even made up of Gundanium, can't stay hidden for long. And with their usual 'leave no witnesses' tactics, it's easy to miss in the middle of a one-day operation. It's why the Gundams don't take prisoners."

He leaned towards her. "So, he was here, but he left. Why did he come here? We know a Gundam was smuggled into the demilitarized zone courtesy of Lefèvre. But why Marseille? Why not attack the conference at Bremen? Or the factories at Corsica again? Or the headquarters at Luxembourg? _Why why why?_"

Sylvia recoiled a little bit, but remained silent, as Parsons clutched his stomach again. "Fine, don't talk. Of what power I have, I can promise that your friend the captain will rot in a P.O.W. camp until the Second Coming."

He stormed off, as the sergeant followed closely behind. "Eight mobile suits lost. We'll attribute this to the Alliance, but between this and Xinjiang, I think it's clear the Gundams have returned." Parsons winced in pain, over doubling over this time.

"Sir!"

He turned to the Royal Marine. "Get me two lines: one to Corsica Base, and another to Ramstein."

**VII**

"Oswald Walker."

Standing at the small runway at Stadland Airfield, Flight Lieutenant Walker turned to look at Master Aircrew Serrati. He was _almost _bothered by the familiarity. "That's correct."

"You don't have a strong English accent. Or a Scottish one."

"It's been some time since I've been asked that. It's a very British name, isn't it? My father was a Scottish-English mix, who immigrated to North America. My mother is also English, but her mother was Bengali."

"So did you never had an accent?"

"Apparently I did before going to school."

Serrati nodded at him. Walker just stared at him, thinking of a question of his own. "Considering you're Latino, you're very Caucasian looking, aren't you?"

Seratti just stared at him, a little surprised by the question.

"Next time, remember to add 'sir'," Walker added, looking away.

He watched him leave. "I lied, you know. You still have an accent, _sir_."

Walker was able to catch up with Treize right before he boarded his shuttle. He still wasn't used to not seeing Colonel Une's glowering face nearby.

"Your Excellency," he said, saluting quickly. "About the designs…"

Treize looked down the portable stairway. "I think I'll leave them in your capable hands, Walker. I like what I've seen so far."

Walker popped the metal snaps on his leather folder and quickly glanced inside. "Except for the cockpit system, sir?"

"That's something I wanted to look at personally. When do you go into space?"

"By the end of this month, sir."

Treize nodded. "Before the summit ends, the Foundation board members will rule on the status of industrial development within OZ, particularly in the area of automation. Unsurprisingly, they haven't invited me. As an engineer, I'd like you to get as close to that meeting as possible. Your technical understanding will be instrumental to that."

That surprised Walker, and he didn't keep his face from showing it. "…are you sure, sir? They are engineers more capable than me, especially in Lake Victoria."

"Perhaps, but you make up for it in other important areas," Treize said, flashing him one of those smiles. "Keep an eye out for an official on the board named Villemont, he might be dangerous."

Even Walker knew he must have looked like a deer about to be run over by a car, so he just nodded. "Yes sir, Colonel."

Treize stared at him for a few moments, as if deconstructing him in his mind. Walker's breathing became a little forced.

"I think you have a question on your mind."

_More than you know. _"N-No, sir."

"I think you do. To answer one question, she is."

"Pardon me, sir?"

Halfway up the stairs, Treize raised the volume of his voice slightly. "She is Relena Peacecraft, the sister of Millardo Peacecraft."

Walker had frozen in place, standing on the tarmac at the bottom of the stairs.

"If you have questions, Walker, you should go ahead and ask, for the sake of war effort."

"I...understand sir."

"And enjoy the rest of your leave."

Stepping away from the stairway as Serrati boarded, Walker watched Treize's private supersonic shuttle—the same one he'd always used, the survivor of a pair the other of which was destroyed by a Gundam—taxi to the runway.

Disraeli approached him from behind. "Watching the great man go be great?"

Walker glanced at him and smiled somberly, before turning back to the runway, a great deal on his mind.

**VIII (Eyecatch)**

It impressed Treize—he was a busy man, though not as a matter of choice so much as the powers that be commanded he be busy—that just two hours from leaving Saxony he could be in Taiwan. His shuttle set down at New Tamsui Air Force Base, another Alliance AFB now controlled by OZ, populated by OZ alongside tiny number of aircraft from PLAAF local to the Republic of Taiwan.

Treize had already changed clothes. He was a man best known for the extravagant royal blue and white of a full-rank colonel in the Alliance Special Mobile Suit Troops, and since he'd been promoted in AC 194 following the death of Chilias Catalonia, he was rarely seen out of it. Most people separated their private and public lives one way or another; for Treize, there was an impenetrable barrier between the two, and with his private life so dwarfed by his public life, few people saw him out of uniform.

But this was an opportunity to try something different. In his first public appearance since the overthrow of the Alliance, it occurred to Treize he should appear receptive to the issues confronting Earth that weren't military in nature. Arguably the most popular talk show on Earth, and the first media program that would be broadcast throughout Earth Sphere since the martial law media blackout was ended, seemed as good a forum as any.

Treize stepped out into the crisp Taiwanese night air, the usual sounds of an air force base—taxiing aircraft, moving gantries, fuel tankers and the distinctive whine of an Aries' turbofans. He was wearing a dark charcoal-blue suit with faint pinstripes, a pale blue shirt and blue and white macclesfield pattern tie. He'd made a concession with the comfortable polished black loafers, he didn't expect people to be looking at them anyway.

Climbing down the stairway followed by Serrati, he smiled at a familiar face standing in front of a limousine: Lieutenant Colonel Andrews, in full dress uniform, who saluted swiftly.

"Andrews. Nice to see a familiar face."

"Good evening, Your Excellency," Andrews replied quickly. He waited until they were already in the limousine on their way to the television studio in New Taipei City before he asked about the clothes."You're out of uniform, sir?"

"I thought it'd be good to present our more civilized face to the world for a change."

"I think I understand, sir." Andrews should have—as Luxembourg's press secretary, he was one of OZ's most prevalent public faces. "To recap, sir: the program you're going on is called…_Wăn-shang-de-dì-qiú_..." he said, struggling with the Mandarin with his Irish accent.

"In the west, of course, it's better known by the title 'Earth in the Evening'. It's probably the most widely-viewed late night talk show in Earth, or Earth Sphere, with tonight projected to call in almost eight-hundred _million _viewers. That's almost a tenth of humanity. Though it's done in Chinese, it's translated live into more than three-hundred different languages, and is owned by the Taiwanese Ministry of Culture. As you know, it's going to be one of the first programs aired live since OZ ended the Alliance's communication blackout over the colonies."

Andrews reached into his leather folder and produced a dossier which Treize took. "This is the host: Chuang Tsung-Lo. Born in AC 149, he was an assistant professor in history in Sun Yat-Sen University until he somehow broke into media. The show was owned by NHK, the Japanese media company, until the Taiwanese government bought them out more than ten years ago, and it's only gotten bigger since then. Chuang himself mostly does serious fireplace-style interviews that follow more lighthearted comedy faire."

Escorted by military jeeps, the limousine arrived in downtown Taipei at a well-lit studio building surrounded by OZ Internal Army troops. Neon lights above the sweeping glass doors declared the name proudly:

**晚上的地球**

Taiwanese media tried to capture video of him making the short walk to the lobby, but were barred by rows of hunter green uniforms, white trousers and black riding boots.

"Ah, Khushrenada-shangxiao." A very fashionable woman in her early twenties approached him, her heels clicking against the polished marble floor, immediately noticeable in an expensive Harris Tweed suit and skirt and with a beauty mark near her left eye. She spoke in clear but accented English. "Welcome to our humble program, we're so glad you could make it."

"T-This is Ms. Shion, the show's producer and head of the writing staff," Andrews explained quickly. "Ms. Shion, I assume everything is in place for his Excellency's appearance?"

"Oh, and you must be Andrews-zhongxioa," Liao said, sounding as friendly but significantly less patient. "Yes, everything is ready here. As agreed, you'll wait in the sound room."

"Which I will do after I remind you of the terms of this interview," Andrews told her assertively, taking her by the arm and gesturing down the hallway. "His Excellency is not some civil servant or political leader. He is not obligated to answer any questions of either a political or military nature, and certainly not of a personal nature. Additionally, on the matter of the Revolution, Mr. Chuang should…"

Shion did a curious trick—producing a very loud piercing sound with one of her heels against the floor—which silenced Andrews. "_Zhonxioa_, I promise we're perfectly capable of following simple instructions. We've already interviewed high-ranking world leaders and even representatives of the Romefeller Foundation. We wouldn't do anything to upset OZ."

Twenty minutes later, early on in the program, Chuang Tsung-Lo stood on his stage in a wrinkled grey suit and addressed the studio audience in Mandarin Chinese. "Thank you, thank you. First, a statement of disclosure: a cousin of mine is an active officer in OZ, serving in the Space Forces. That being said, I think you're as just as enthusiastic as I am to welcome the OZ's commander-in-chief, His Excellency, Treize Khushrenada!"

From the sound room overlooking the stage, Andrew watched intently as Treize confidently strode across the soundstage, shook Chuang's hand cheerfully, and both men sat at the desk in the middle. It wasn't immediately visible, but in his left ear Treize wore an earpiece linking him to an OZ officer acting as an interpreter, allowing Chuang to speak to him in Chinese.

"_First off, thank you so much for offering your time to this, the first broadcast to reach the colonies in a generation._"

Treize took a second to respond. "_I wouldn't have missed the opportunity_."

A nervous Andrews put his hands together, hunched against the glass, as Shion rolled her eyes and lit a cigarette inside the dim sound control room.

"Relax."

"Don't tell me to relax,' he snapped back quietly.

Throughout Earth Sphere, millions gathered by family TV monitors, in front of electronics stores, by their mobile phones or even in the cockpit of war machines like mobile suits to watch this, the first simultaneous broadcast between both Earth and the colonies in years. Many were regular fans, while for young people in Outer Space, it was their first opportunity.

Just hours before their launch at Lake Baikal, clad in a purple-and-black military normal suit, Emi removed her helmet and leaned into the cockpit of her new machine, an OZ-12SMSK 'Taurus' command unit. With a careful touch, she switched on one of the multi-function displays and switched the input to broadcast television. Inside the lift vehicle, down the gantry, a number of other officers crowded around another open mobile suit cockpit.

_Well, isn't this novel? _

"Everyone, shut up, I want to be able to her this!" F/O Syed Khan snapped, pushing F/O Tsujimoto aside so she could reach for the volume control.

Half a world away, Walker received a message on his mobile from Disraeli, telling him to switch to the local CCTV affiliate. In the other direction, Kaneshiro Kanna's Aries stood amid the ruins of an Alliance battalion in the Republic of Utah, under 20 kilometers from the border, as she tuned one of her MFDs, trying to find the right channel. Outside of the Military Commissariat, few had even known about Chuang's surprise guest.

In a hotel room in Bremen, far from the Foundation's castle, Dr. Eva emerged from the shower, wrapping herself in a towel as water dripped from her soaked hair. She eyed the television in the adjacent bedroom, a smile creeping across her face. "What do you know, it's still fun even if you're the only one who isn't surprised."

Among the few not following the broadcast were Officer Cadet Parsons and Inspector Acht—the former, still hobbling from his physical injuries, had hurried back to Corsica to depart for Lake Victoria. Acht had other things on his mind, principally his investigation. Their young 'guest', Bishop, watched it on a monitor inside the aircraft.

Shuffling though his notes quickly, Chuang looked through his notes. "First, I should ask you: how is the war effort going on Earth? Obviously, the Revolutions are still going on in many parts of the world, and it's difficult to get a complete view."

Treize did an excellent job appearing as though to weigh the matter heavily after the translator finished. "Well, Mr. Chuang, as you know Earth itself is still contested, though not so much as even just a week ago. Obviously, Xinjiang has been won…"

That observation got some applause from the audience.

"…as is Kurdistan. Before that, peace was negotiated in the Baltics. At the same time, Utah, Sumatra and other locations remain in Alliance hands."

"There's news coming out of France that the conflict zone in Marseille has been…been won," Chuang offered.

The two continued in a line of noncontroversial questions, most having to do with general politics, a few very general questions about Treize himself. A further few were vague hypotheticals that would have been easy to answer under any circumstances.

Andrew kept watching, occasionally making notes of the conversation, as Ms. Shion calmly examined her nails or the digital sound equipment. Treize had just told a mild-mannered joke, which Chuang politely chuckled at.

"In that case, what does Treize Khushrenada do to relax? You can't be on-duty all the time, I see right now that you're not in uniform."

Another pause. "I'm not a man with many hobbies," he humbly admitted. "Like most OZ officers, I have no family."

"Why is that?"

"I can't afford to be divided between military and familial responsibilities," he explained.

"You're still a young man, of course. You could still easily have a family."

"Naturally, I've thought about it," Treize assured him. "Ten years ago, I didn't think I was going to be where I am now, I can assure you, both in terms of my private life and my career."

"Oh, that's a lie," Nabiki announced, to the laughter of the audience crowding around the Taurus' cockpit.

"_Nonetheless, here you are,_" Chuang said, or at least the subtitles underneath him indicated he said. "_Was it worth it?_"

A hush fell across the studio audience. "I wouldn't give it up for anything."

There was some clapping in the audience as Chuang shuffled through his notes again. "That's good to hear. With that in mind, I actually have a more difficult question to ask you, pertaining to the Gundams…"

Treize smiled as he continued. "…and a particular encounter with multiple Gundams in Siberia."

While Treize kept smiling, those in the sound control room were less pleased after Chuang actually asked the question. "You little…!" Andrews was genuinely angry, a rarity for a man known for being so mild-mannered. "How dare you?"

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Shion countered. "Were we _not _supposed to talk about major issues?"

"Don't give me that 'journalist integrity' _bullshit_," he hissed back. "How dare you ambush His Excellency like this?"

"You call this an ambush? If it were up to me, we would have shot to this in the beginning: 'Did the OZ General Staff threaten to begin a missile attack on the Lagrange points if the Gundams did not surrender?' You're lucky Chuang prefer to softball these sort of things."

"…_softball_…?" Andrews screeched.

On the soundstage, Chuang looked attentively at Treize, his hands together on his desk. "To repeat the question, Colonel: can you address the rumor that the Siberian battle, which preceded an entire month free of the Gundam attacks, was won primarily through the threat of direct force by Earth against the colonies? I realize you aren't obligated to answer this…"

"No," Treize said, cutting him off. "I'd like to answer this."

Inside the sound room, Andrews was close to coming to blows with Shion when Treize's insistence froze him.

"For the benefit of your audience in Outer Space," Treize explained. "It's true that the space fortress _Barge _was seized simultaneously with the Battle of Mirny in Siberia. And it's true that, with the seizure of _Barge_, OZ regained control over the geosynchronous missile silos still held by the Alliance Space Forces' Missile Troops at the time."

The audience was now dead silent, as was Chuang. Treize continued. "On 19 May, the Alliance civilian government ended the police action and declared a state of war between Earth and the colonies following the Gundams' destruction of the Alliance high command. As a condition of that, direct missile attacks on the colonies became an option."

"So you're saying OZ inherited the Alliance's policies?" Chuang asked.

Treize seemed to ignore the translated statement. "By Mirny, on 9 June, a member of the General Staff took it upon himself or herself to use that same strategy to force the Gundams to surrender. As we now know, it was only partially effective. Even then, that officer had no right to make that decision and was removed from the General Staff immediately."

Chuang stared at Treize. "So you're admitting that this rumor is true?"

"I have no other option: this act has unintentionally shaped OZ's present colonial initiative." He leaned towards Chuang. "Like any human organization, OZ isn't perfect. The best thing I can do is own its actions and personally take over the Outer Space initiative. _I _determine OZ's colonial policy now, not the major financial or political institutions of Earth."

"You mean the Romefeller Foundation and the recent world congress of the United Nations Organization, respectively?"

Treize smiled a little. "Whatever they may be, I direct OZ's diplomatic ventures now. We can't afford any repeats of past errors made by those with old-fashion mindsets."

"Is that why you're advocating a complete arming of the individual colonies? An act extremely unpopular with the UNO?"

"Now, Mr. Chuang, you're asking a little too much of me."

Chuang wiped his brow. "Of course, perhaps this has become too serious and we're due for a commercial break anyway." He turned to the camera. "Please stay with us as I continue my interview with OZ's supreme commander, Treize Khushrenada."

The lighting switched for the twenty-second long commercial break. Chuang still seemed tense, and leaning back in his chair, spoke again, this time in English with a strong accent. "Thank you, sir."

"Thank you?"

"For answering that. Especially in front of an audience." He wiped his brow again, this time with his handkerchief instead of his sleeve. "It wasn't the answer I was hoping for, but I wasn't expecting you to answer at all."

Treize smirked a little as Chuang adjusted himself as the lighting switched. "_And we've returned. With me is Colonel Treize Khushrenada, commander of the military organization OZ._"

Walker himself was watching the same television program, carefully reading the subtitles that appeared on the bottom of his mobile's screen. He was almost perfectly frozen in place, standing in the middle of the hallway.

"Sir! Sir?"

He ignored what sounded like a distant voice. _So that's what I missed at Mirny. Une's ace in her sleeve was against the Gundams: a few hundred nuclear missiles in orbit. _

"Sir!" the voice yelled, more insistently.

"Just _wait_!" Walker demanded, putting his hand out while he held his mobile with the other. _This isn't over. _

"Sir, the mobile doll development team in Luxembourg returned your call," the junior officer snapped, sounding more annoyed than before. She frowned. "And what is a 'mobile doll' anyway?"

**IX**

By the time Inspector Acht met up with him, Parsons was capable of moving without assistance, but he was still smoldering and taking out his rage over Marseille at the accompany agents from the Romefeller Foundation and anyone else in his vicinity. So they waited another day for the young officer cadet to stop throwing things and speak rationally.

Having returned to Lake Victoria, in a lemon yellow blouse and a leather skirt—the same thing she'd been wearing for the last week—Rachel Nina Bishop sat in the terminal at the military airfield, flanked by a pair of large plain-suit Military Commissariat men in sunglasses. She took off her hat and shook her blond hair out, before looking back at up the ceiling.

"Ah, Ms. Bishop. I appreciate your taking the time to help us with our investigation."

Hanging her head over the row of seats, she saw Inspector Acht approaching in his suit and ridiculous top hat, carrying his coat in his hands. He was flanked by a more handsome, much younger man with straight, stringy black hair in a junior officer's uniform, who unfortunately hobbled like an old man.

She sat back up in her chair. "After that stupid stunt at Corsica, I didn't think I had a choice. And is there a particular reason I had to wait a week with you for this?"

Acht gave her his usual, useless smile, before glancing out the window past her. "Looks like rain is coming our way. African weather is unpredictable," he announced.

She raised an eyebrow. "You got somethin' planned?"

"Actually, I do." He gestured at the young man behind him, with bandages on his left cheek and forehead. "Officer Cadet Parsons is…healthy…enough to be joining us."

"Whatever."

He glanced at O/C Parsons. "Let's not waste any more of Ms. Bishop's time."

A minute later, all three were sitting inside a planning office in the main building.

"Just a few questions, and we won't need to take any more of your time hopefully," Acht began. "What exactly is it that you do, Ms. Bishop?"

"I'm a civilian specialist for military engineering. I was certified by OZ, so I am…I was hired by the Alliance and by national governments."

"And now you work for OZ?"

"Sometimes."

Acht nodded, while Parsons stood very still, writing in a notebook.

"I see, and what was your role in the Gundam Unit Zero-One Technical Analysis?"

"Control systems and power distribution."

"And what exactly is that?"

"I was involved in inspection of the controls and power systems," she answered curtly.

Acht nodded. "And how was it that you came to work on this project?"

"Whaddya mean?"

"You're not part of Colonel Merquise's usual technical support team, nor are you a regular at the Academy. What brought you to Lake Victoria?"

She made the international sign for money with one hand.

Acht chuckled. "I see. Let me rephrase the question: why did Colonel Merquise chose you?"

"They never said. I guess I had good references."

"So you have no idea why you were selected?"

"Nope." _It's definitely not the only way I could get closer to guys I knew back in the Alliance._

Parsons stopped writing and glanced over at Acht. Very deliberately, he removed his thin glasses and cleaned them with a cloth from his pocket. After replacing them, he spoke again. "You really can't think of anything? A past assignment, something you did during your certification, someone you were associated with in the technical community."

"No, I can't."

"Do you have any hobbies, Ms. Bishop?"

She was about to open her mouth to answer when the sound of rain pouring outside became audible. Parsons promptly rose from his seat and walked over to the room's large window, closing the blinds. Rani looked away from the window and back at Acht.

"Football, traveling and diving," she told him, drawing a sphere in the air in front of her.

Acht chuckled again as the rain grew harder. "My son's a FIFA-addict also. I think I've heard everything I needed, thank you for your time, Ms. Bishop. Mr. Parsons has a few remaining questions for you, after which you're free to leave."

He rose from his seat, as did Parsons awkwardly. He watched Acht leave before sitting back down, now in Acht's chair, still nursing his stomach. He shifted about before unbuttoning his stiff collar and shaking his head.

"You'll have to excuse me, Bishop, I'm not used to this tropical heat. This is supposed to be the dry season, isn't it?" he asked her, wiping his neck a few times with a handkerchief. Abruptly, there was a flash in the window followed by a very loud crack of thunder that caught Parsons off guard. The sound of thunder masked a high-pitched yelp from Rani. When he looked back at her, he found her crouched over her chair, holding her legs against her chest.

"Are…are you all right, Bishop?"

"I'm fine!" she snapped back, not looking up from her legs. "I just don't like lightning, okay?"

Parsons stared at her, genuinely mystified, before looking back at his papers. "Ms. Bishop, would you mind explaining your reputation with these two officers?" he asked, taking a pair of service photographs out of a folder when there was another flash of lightning, causing Rani to yelp again, after which she stood shaking in the office chair.

"…Ms. Bishop, if you could…"

"Okay, fine!" She pointed from her chair, legs still held tight. "That's David, my brother. And that's Oswald Walker, his boss. There, can I go now?"

There was more rumbling thunder, and more shaking from Rani. Parsons stared at her, still a little bewildered. I suppose opening the window is out of the question, isn't it?

"I suppose...this is as good a time as any to end," he asked, taking his photographs back. "Thank you for your cooperation, the Military Commissariat will stay in touch."

Rani had gone back to holding her legs against her chest as more thunder and lightning cracked, as Parsons uncomfortably stood up and left the room.

As rain took the place of the thunder and lightning, two men from Zech's personal engineering team, Mieser and Jim, crossed the airfield grounds in military raincoats. They entered the same building Rani was in, pulled back their hoods, and looked around.

"Where were you guys?" Rani yelled angrily, emerging from a hallway.

"We were going to ask you the same," Mieser countered. "What happened?"

"What do you think?" she snapped back, still shaking a little. "They asked a bunch of stupid questions and then wished me a nice day."

"That was it?" Jim asked.

"Yeah, that was it!"

"Well, come on. I know a place we can talk."

The three took refuge in a utility room in the airfield's main building, where Jim and Mieser took off their raincoats. Rani, seeming more confident now, sat down on an empty spot on a wall shelf, propping her legs up.

"We're not fooling anyone."

"Excuse me?" Mieser asked.

"Bishop thinks that Acht and the others already know we've finished with Wing Gundam, and are handling us with kid gloves purely as a formality," Jim explained.

Rani pointed a finger and nodded. "Do whatever you guys want tomorrow, Achts' already written his report."

"Wait, what does that even mean?" Mieser asked. "They've given up?"

"Of course not. They're just going to assume the worst and report back with that," Jim offered.

Mieser sighed. "Damn it…"

"I can see the memo now: Zechs Merquise builds no less than one Gundam at the Lake Victoria Academy."

"Maybe they'll just go away if we ignore them," Rani jeered.

"Unless you actually have something to contribute, Bishop, I think we'll go ahead with the initial plan. Tomorrow morning, after the demolitions, they'll conduct their search and end the investigation."

"What is the plan?"

"We're sinking Wing Gundam to the bottom of Lake Victoria," Mieser told her. "With the Cancer training ship."

"…wow," Rani simply remarked.

"Jim, you'll be in charge here. We can't just drop a Gundam into Lake Victoria and just hope nothing happens, and remote buoyancy equipment will just make it more convenient for Acht to walk away with the Gundam."

"Wait…what?"

"Mieser's going to be submerged with Wing Gundam to the lake bottom, near Mfangano Island."

"You're kidding!"

"Our priority is ensuring the safety of the Gundam."

"Are you guys crazy? For how long?"

"However long Acht's survey of the decoy wreckage is going to take. We're shooting for twelve hours."

"Okay, you guys _are_ crazy. Good to know. Only one of us of has actually operated the Gundam, you know that?"

Mieser and Jim both stared at their shorter comrade. "No, absolutely not."

"Why the heck not?"

"It's out of the question."

"So you're just gonna' sit in a machine you've never operated, for half a day, in case you have to surface, switch to fighter mode, and then take off through air defense?" She crossed her arms angrily over her chest.

"Still…"

"Show of hands: who here owns their own scuba equipment?" Rani immediately raised her hands while looking at the other two.

"She has a point, chief."

Mieser just stared ahead blankly, as Jim patted Rani on the shoulder. "Let's get you fitted for a diving suit then."

"The thing came from space. And it's not watertight?"

"It is, just like every other mobile suit. In twelve hours, who knows, right?" He glanced over her shoulder at Mieser. "Chief?"

"I'll handle the demolition show personally then."

"Okay, see, we've got a plan now," Jim observed. "I'll walk Rani through the whole thing, and she is the only person here who's operated Wing Gundam. God willing, it won't come to that."

"Some plan," she snorted. "What did I say when I first came here?"

"What did you say?" Jim asked, humoring her as Mieser just shook his head.

"'You guys are totally nuts.' That's what I said," she snapped back.

"Right, right. Come on, kiddo," Jim said, as the three exited the utility closet and went to a maintenance entrance. Jim and Mieser both donned their raincoats again, as Rani stared at the rain outside.

"Wait, what are we doing?"

"It's about four klicks to the docks at Kogoe, where we've got some RHIBs waiting for us," Jim explained.

"And you don't have a jeep?" she asked.

"We're trying to avoid calling attention to ourselves. Running's quieter," Mieser said, pulling his hood on.

An increasingly nervous Rani watched as both men stepped outside.

"Come on, it's just a drizzle now," Jim told her.

"I'm not worried about the rain," she said, peering outside, before following them. The faint sound of rumbling came from the sky, as the three left the airfield grounds and followed the road south.

It took a few minutes, but just as it had before the sky began to crackle and rumble more as the rain got lighter. They'd jogged for almost a kilometer before a lightning flash lit up the night, followed by another loud rumble of thunder.

"Geeze, the weather here," Mieser mumbled. "I thought this was the dry season."

"Uh, sir?"

Mieser glanced in the direction Jim was pointing, in time to see Rani huddled underneath a tall bottle tree, her back against it. "Why do you people keep saying that? Do…do you mind if we wait here? For the sky to clear?"

"No, that won't work."

"Please?" she repeated again, sounding more than a little alarmed.

"Bishop, we need to move. Besides, it's still raining," Mieser repeated, holding a hand out.

"Just a few minutes."

The two stared at her, confused.

"Fine, I'm scared of lightning! So can we wait?"

Mieser looked at Jim before turning away and jogging down the road. Jim promptly followed, more slowly.

"Come on!" she yelled, interrupted by another lightning strike and thunder boom, causing her to fall to her knees. "I'm too young to die!" she yelled at them.

Mieser and Jim said nothing, continuing to run down the road, ignoring her.

"Wait…wait!" Rani glanced up at the sky, took a deep breath, then darted away from the tree. "You guys are cruel! Your mothers would be ashamed of you!" she yelled at them as she caught up.

**X**

On Lake Victoria itself, near Mfangano Island, an OZ training vessel, hull code MST-90, sat several kilometers off the shore, its running lights darkened.

The sky had cleared and it was a typically dark Lake Victoria night as Rachel Nina Bishop and Jim snuck aboard a small RHIB—rigid-hull inflatable boat—fired up the electric engine and quickly puttered over to the training ship.

Rani sat in the front of the craft, as Jim steered, propping a leg up. "What's this ship again?"

"Normally, they use it for training cadets in the Cancer and Pisces mobile suits."

"Really?"

"You have to train them somehow. Lake Victoria—space, land, underwater—they train 'em all."

They came to a halt along the stern of the training vessel, as Rani caught a mooring line and secured the RHIB, before climbing up the ladder, followed by Jim. When they reached the top, Jim opened a nearby bulkhead door and they went from the darkness of night to the complete darkness of the until ship's interior.

Reaching around in the darkness, he grabbed and flipped a larger breaker, noisily switching on the spotlights inside the main hold.

From the top of the stairway leading down into the main hold, Rani stared around. The first thing she noticed a half dozen red OZ-08MMS 'Cancer' mobile suits suspending from mechanical gantries from the ceiling. Beneath them, suspended by a similar gantry that reached down to the bottom of the hold, atop a number of cylindrical orange buoyancy bladders, was the rebuilt XXXG-01W 'Wing Gundam', known to OZ as Gundam-01, complete with its beam cannon and ramming shield. The mobile suit was resting on its back, atop the buoyancy sacks. Its original color scheme had even been restored. Rani was actually a little surprised to see it, despite herself.

"It's a Gundam!"

Jim just stared at her as she turned away, red from embarrassment at her painfully obvious observation. "So, I'm going to wait in the cockpit?"

"That's our plan. Tomorrow, Mieser and I will personally oversea the detonation of the decoy Gundam nearby, for the Romefeller inspection team. Acht will probably want to inspect the wreckage, of course."

"How are you gonna' make that work?"

"Remember what you said about the parts looking like Tallgeese? We already have the decoy ready. In the meantime, all of our efforts for the last weeks will be sitting on the floor of the lake not far by."

She looked back at the Gundam doubtfully. "I want a wetsuit."

In the diver's quarters, Rani hastily stripped and looked through a number of women's neoprene wetsuits, black with white highlights that resembled OZ uniforms, checking the sizes. Jim continued on the other side of the door, his voice muffled. "As you probably know, Gundanium sinks just about as well as titanium—its utility is its high tensile strength and hardness, not its density—so we're attaching it to this deep-sea salvaging equipment, which wasn't easy to get. And to account for its electromagnetic deflection qualities, you'll need to attach a deep-water radio antenna to the outside. When it's clear, we'll buzz you."

Having found one in the right size, Rani stuck her legs and then arms into a formfitting wetsuit, pulled on the matching gloves, and sealed them at the wrists. She glanced at her civilian attire in a pile on the floor and began fishing through it: a wristwatch, a pocketbook, a mobile and a letter in an envelope marked with neat print: _For Michael Wú_.

Half-dressed, she returned the other items and took the letter, slipping it into the front of her wetsuit before pulling it over her chest and around her neck.

The bulkhead door swung open, revealing Rani largely clad in her wetsuit and holding a breathing apparatus, mask and goggles in one hand. She reached over her back and closed the zipper noisily, as Jim continued. "If not, you'll do the same thing: activate the salvaging equipment, rise to the surface, and hopefully launch into flight mode. After that, you'll make best speed to the Indian Ocean."

"So that's the plan?" she asked as she adjusted her gloves. "Great. I love my life."

"You sure you don't want a normal suit?" he asked. "They're waterproof up to…"

"No thanks," she told him, slinging the tank over her back. "You guys aren't tricking me into going into Outer Space."

The two made their way back to the main hold, where Rani donned the tank, apparatus and goggles, letting the mask hang from her neck. Jim presented her with large aluminum antenna.

"Fix this onto the outside, then plug it into the serial port access underneath the secondary head camera that we installed for just this event. It connects to a miniature sensor computer, battery-powered, shouldn't be detectable."

Just as she was about to jump into the water, Jim held her shoulder. "Wait."

He reached into the satchel he was carrying. "Survival pack. Supplies, tools, the usual."

After taking the smaller satchel, Rani nodded, slung the antenna over her shoulder, then tossed herself over the guardrail backwards. She vanished underneath the surface briefly, only to immediately surface, water dripping from her braids and ponytails. She quickly gave him a thumbs-up and swam over to the Gundam, climbing up the beam cannon, equipment in tow.

"And be careful with that pistol!" he warned her. Almost immediately, Rani paused on the Gundam, opened the satchel and took out a sidearm. She looked at it briefly before sliding it into the thigh holster fixed to the neoprene suit. She then walked along the arm to the Gundam's head, quickly affixing the antenna along the large V-antenna affixed to the front of the machine's head, and plugging its cable into a disguised port right underneath the rectangular central camera. She gave Jim a thumbs-up, who returned it, as she climbed along the Gundam's torso and opened the armor cockpit door underneath the search eye.

Shifting her oxygen tank, she threw herself into the open cockpit and closed the door behind her. Using the small light affixed to her harness, she found the added sensor system and flipped it on.

"_Bishop, can you hear me? Bishop, come in._"

"You're coming in clear. How deep does this thing work?"

"Should be good for two-hundred meters, that's three times the average depth of Lake Victoria." Jim climbed up the stairway out of the main hold. "I'll take us out to our hiding place, hang tight."

Rani could actually feel the mobile suit, and the whole ship, move slowly as it cast off its moorings and its propellers began spinning. Within a few minutes, it had pulled off from the concrete pen, slipping into the darkness.

She tried to get herself comfortable in the inclined cockpit, adjusting her one source of light. _So this is what flight mode feels like. _Moving her tank, she unzipped her suit slightly and took out a piece of letter. Aiming her light, she could read the line at the top: **Mandarin Oriental, Hong Kong. **

While Rani preoccupied herself with a sheet of hotel stationary, Jim stood on the bridge, using the computer to pilot the ship to its destination. Upon reaching it, he killed the turbines and donned a headset.

"Bishop?"

"_I copy._"

"We're over the drop point. If you want to back out, this is your last chance."

He response was quick. "_Forget it. I already knew you guys were crazy when I signed up for this job._"

"Roger. Have a nice nap." Jim reached for a nearby set of switches, which he flipped, releasing the Gundam from its tethers and letting it swiftly sink to the bottom of the lake.

**XI**

"Inspector Acht, I strongly object to this."

Parsons followed Acht to the diesel observation boat on the lakeshore, as Foundation agents began removing the moorings.

"You'll have no problem seeing the demolition from here on land, Parsons," Acht assured him, sounding amused.

"I don't see why I shouldn't accompany you."

Acht sighed, then pointed to a small RHIB towed by the observation boat. "Stand there, Officer."

Parsons scoffed and, carefully, climbed off the dock and onto the RHIB. As soon as he stepped aboard, the inflatable shifted and he doubled over, apparently overcome by nausea. A Romefeller Foundation man helped him back onto the dock as he moaned softly.

"I'm sure Engineer Mieser has everything he needs to conduct the demolition," he told Parsons, half-sympathetically, half-tauntingly. Behind the injured officer cadet, a military jeep pulled on the road.

"Ah, Lieutenant Colonel Zechs Merquise! I was wondering if you were going to show or not," Acht announced jubilantly. Zechs, in full uniform as usual, climbed out of the jeep and left his driver behind.

"I apologize for my lateness, Inspector Acht. I came here directly from the airfield, could I be briefed on the precise details of the demolition?" he asked, sounding disinterested.

"I'm sure Mieser'll have no problem updating you once we're 'out to sea', so to speak." Acht gestured at the observation boat and Zechs nodded, though not before glancing at Parsons, who was still kneeling over in discomfort, but trying to salute.

"What's wrong with your man?"

"He was punched by a Gundam, apparently."

Within a few minutes, they about 30 kilometers north of Mori Bay, while Mieser explained the details. "Gundam Zero-One is in this area, in what used to be Tazania's Serengeti National Park, just across the border. Two tonnes of RDX industrial explosive distributed between multiple sites will be used to obliterate remains beyond salvaging."

"Everything looks above the table, gentlemen," Acht said pleasantly.

"We're ready when you are, Inspector," Zechs told him.

The five of them stood in the wheelhouse, staring over the shoreline, as Mieser double-checked the remote trigger that hung from his neck with a leather strap, then inserted the key. Resting on the hill, cradling what remained of its cranium in one arm, was the unmistakable figure of Gundam-01.

One of the Foundation men slipped his mobile back into his suit pocket. "Confirming the blast site is cleared."

"We're armed," Mieser announced.

"Do it," Zechs ordered.

Mieser turned the trigger, broadcasting the signal. What immediately followed was the first in a series of eight violent explosions, the final one strong enough that the shockwave discernibly rocked the observation boat dozens of kilometers away.

"As per your orders, Unit Zero-One has been destroyed," Zechs announced.

"I have officially witnessed the demolition, though would you have any objections to me personally inspecting the remains?"

"You're not satisfied with the documentation we filed?" Mieser asked.

"I'd rather examine the situation with my own two eyes. You'll see, I'll need to be filing my own report to appease the hardliners in the Foundation," he explained, sounding entirely too truthful.

"Go ahead."

Acht and the two Foundation men departed on the RHIB, the former holding onto his top hat as the sped off. "I don't expect we'll find anything out of the ordinary. This is Zechs Merquise, after all; he's unlikely to be careless with details."

"Our investigation didn't reveal any parts of the Gundam left at Lake Victoria, sir."

Acht laughed. "The man is fond of mobile suits. I doubt he'll change that for the likes of us."

The other spoke. "What could he possibly stand to gain by opposing the Foundation?"

"I wouldn't have a clue," he smirked. "But this era now belongs to the Romefeller Foundation. If we want to play this game, we need to prove that Zechs Merquise has gone against his superior's orders."

Mieser remained behind on the observation boat with Zechs. "We're worrying about this too much. Inspector Acht is just trying to find fault with you so he can score some points with Romefeller. He won't find anything that differs from our report."

"I'm sorry I had to involve you in this farce," he admitted.

"I'm with you, Colonel. It'd have been a shame just to destroy the Gundam at this point," he said with a coy grin. "The price for that is we no longer have any spare parts for Tallgeese, though."

"In that case, I'll just have to be more careful."

"Unnecessary, sir! There's no pilot that could harm you with that machine."

"Not true. There's at least one pilot who is capable of just that."

As Zechs brooded, Mieser couldn't hold back his proud smile. _I always wondered why Walker worshiped the Lighting Count. Now I know._

He eyed the remote trigger resting on the ship's controls. _So then, why isn't he here?_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note:<strong>_

_First things first: check out Chapter 11 (title 'Chapter 10'…geeze, I need to start naming this things), right before the operation in Siberia. I've added a scene that explains the capture of _Barge.

_Well, we've set a new record on long chapters. Hu-freaking-zah. I moved the scene with Rani much later to account for the correct time when Wing Gundam's decoy was destroyed, 21 July AC 195. _

_This kind of goes was to why I dislike long chapters—they take longer to put out, and not necessarily for the better. Still, this chapter does establish a few things I wanted to cover: public relations (mostly missing from GW, but present in EW to some extent), the consequences of Une's stunt stopping the Gundam. _

_What do we have to look forward to? Well, for starters, I eventually hope to cover Relena's ten-episode absence. Rani will briefly meet Zechs, that will be easy. More time in Outer Space, though Walker won't be there for a few episodes, and more discussion about mobile dolls. Indeed, Walker won't be featuring that heavily in the following chapters (well, considering he's the central character anyway). _


	23. Treason in Antarctica

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 23 **– Treason in Antarctica****

_22 July, AC 195, MO-II High Earth Orbit Staging Area_

A century ago, a number of governments on Earth acting collectively captured a resource-rich planetoid and set it in Earth orbit. Combined with an extensive recycling industry, MO-II's mineral assets fueled industrial and commercial growth on Earth as well as the means to complete space colonies that were currently in construction. When it was depleted, there was no alternative for it to be garrisoned by the Alliance military as both a location of high strategic importance and potential disaster for Earth in the event it was deorbited.

The year is After Colony 195, and OZ has taken center stage. Like all of Earth's nearest neighbors, MO-II was seized by OZ and its allies in the immediate aftermath of Operation 'Daybreak'.

For the 2nd Order of the Chrysanthemum Space Division, and the specialized battalions that had joined it, MO-II was the last leg of their journey before reaching Outer Space. Behind them was Earth, beyond them Space Fortress _Barge _and, eventually, the colonies.

In the middle of a discretionary spacewalk, Flight Lieutenant Ogasawara Emi stood in a purple military normal suit, a long tether linking her to the nearby airlock. Legs apart, she watched the reflection of the rising sun behind MO-II in the oceans of Earth.

"_Your first time in space, Flight Lieutenant?_" a voice asked on the radio. Very deliberately, she looked over her shoulder and shook her helmet back and forth: it wasn't.

"B_eautiful, isn't it?_"

Again, no response. Not far from the hatch and support beam Emi was standing on, one of MO-II's major hangars, large enough to house a small cruiser. Out of that gaping maw, two armored Taurus RDC—rapid-deployment spacecraft specialized to carry three OZ-12SMS 'Taurus' mobile suits—emerged, one after another, firing their primary rocket engines. They were silent in the practically nonexistent atmosphere at MO-II's altitude, the huge armored caps that made up their bows lined with piping attitude control motors making small course corrections.

Emi took one last look at the six mobile suits leaving the hangar, part of the 2nd Order of the Chrysanthemum Space Division's Squadron 1, Omar Clarkson's command, before taking ahold of her tether and drifting back to the hatch.

**II**

Another beautiful day at the Lake Victoria Academy, with normal operations and classes resuming. Officer cadets ran in their morning exercises, and OZ-07AMS 'Aries' strolled out of their hangars and stood in formation in preparation for drills.

"Thank you for humoring me, Lieutenant Colonel." Inspector Johan Acht shook Zech Merquise's gloved hand, all smiles.

"The pleasure was mine, Inspector."

Acht watched his reflection in Zechs' mask. "I'll report to the Military Commissariat that Executive Order 540 was carried out, and I'll do what I can to assure the Foundation. You know, you really shouldn't provoke them like this."

The two men stood in silence before laughing softly at each other, and Acht released his hand and turned to Officer Cadet Edward Parsons, who stood at ease nearby. "Come, Mr. Parsons, let's get out of the Colonel's hair."

Parsons saluted sharply before joining Acht as they both climbed aboard their aircraft. Zechs silently watched as the aircraft spun up its turbines and began taxiing across the tarmac, waiting until it had turned away before speaking. "Mieser, I need a boat."

In the cockpit of XXXG-01W, better known as Gundam-01, Rachel Nina Bishop arched over awkwardly in the seat, trying to past the time by. She'd read Walker's letter to Michael Wú four times, then she'd gotten bored and started fidgeting idly.

After an uncertain number of hours, the additional radio receiver she'd fixed temporarily into place over the digital altimeter began buzzing and the light on the top flashed intermittently. She snatched it immediately and hit the key.

"_Broken bird, I repeat, broken bird._"

"Sorry, what was that the code for?"

There was an audible groan on the other side. "_We're bringing you up. Stand by!_"

Within a few minutes, there was a loud clicking noise followed by a deep thump of harnesses being attached the Gundam, and she could feel the whole machine being towed back up to the surface. She adjusted her scuba gear and waited anxious for confirmation.

"_Bird is on the surface. You're all cleared._"

She struck the switch to open the hatch, and the armored clamshell facing slid downwards not unlike an the central chassis on an Aries, followed by the actual cockpit door opening in front of her. She clambered out and threw herself into the water immediately.

Jim was waited nearby on a RHIB. "You took your time, Gramps! I heard the explosion yesterday!"

"You heard that from down there? Anyway, the colonel wants to speak with you in person."

"Who? You mean Zechs?"

In short order she climbed aboard the RHIB and then onto the training vessel MST-90 where Zechs was waiting on deck. Bishop hadn't actually given any thought as to what she'd say to the famous war hero she thought might be certifiable.

"Hey gramps, what should I call him?" she asked quietly as they walked to him, dripping puddles of water after her.

"Colonel Zechs is fine."

She noticed two things about the colonel immediately: namely, he was much taller than her, despite not being much older—he was Walker's age, after all—and stood a good thirty centimeters above her. Second, he looked just as bizarre as he had in the press: long platinum blond hair and a polished masked that enclosed the whole top of his head._ What a weirdo_, she thought, trying to hide the fact.

"Rachel Bishop?"

"Uh, yes sir, Colonel," she said, as she took his hand and he shook it.

"I was told you were a big part of what made this restoration possible," he said, glancing over at the Gundam as it was pulled into the MST-90's main hold.

"I…guess so, sir."

Zechs nodded as water kept dripping of Bishop's multiple pigtails and ponytails. "Thanks for your efforts."

"You're welcome, Colonel."

"Where will you go now?"

_Thanks to that mask, I can't tell if he's genuinely interested or messing with me. _"I'll…go back to Heathrow. Me and two friemds, we run surveys in the northern hemisphere…"

"It sounds like a good line of work to have," he told her, nodding graciously.

She'd had enough. "Since you're here, Colonel, I wanted to ask…why?"

"Excuse me?"

"Why do this? All of OZ, maybe all of Earth Sphere, wants to destroy or at least stop the Gundams. Why rebuild one?"

Rani was prepared for a number of responses: some speech about the complexity of the war effort, an excuse about classified information, that sort of thing. Instead, Zech's answer surprised her.

"I have unfinished business with the pilot. Being a mobile suit pilot as I am, he needs his machine to finally put the matter to rest."

_But you aren't going to put that matter to rest, are you? _Bishop didn't vocalize that thought, but immediately turned around and, undoing her oxygen tank, skipped to the edge of the boat. The tank bounced loudly against the deck and she flung herself over the edge of the ship, hanging on her by hands. Jim ran up to her, as if to keep her from falling.

Instead, she spoke to him quietly. "I don't know if you guys see it or not, gramps, but you gotta' know that Zechs is losing it. The first guy who fights a Gundam on Earth, and when it's finally destroyed, he wants to rebuild it? So he can give it back to the pilot?"

"I don't expect a child to understand…"

"Yeah, save it for someone you can actually fool," she interrupted sharply, releasing herself from the edge and falling the height of the ship back into the water, next to the RHIB. Without her heavy oxygen tank, she easily pulled herself aboard and cast off the ship's moorings.

Jim returned to Zechs apologetically. "I apologize, Colonel. You know these civilian contractors, they're always a little strange."

"Don't worry about it."

Already far from Lake Victoria in a small subsonic Bombardier VIP jet, Acht and Parsons sat in the main cabin on the comfortable leather furniture. Behind them were rows of identical metal cargo boxes embossed with the OZ Terrestrial Forces emblem and wrapped in glossy red tape. The luggage compartment below was packed with the same containers.

Parsons clicked his pen before signing his name across the top document in a pile and stamping it carefully. He meticulously set them inside a leather folder, closed it, and set it on the adjacent countertop. "Well, I think Colonel Merquise did an excellent job refuting any charges of impropriety," he told Acht, holding his arms with his palms open.

He gave his trademark snide, wide grin. "Just kidding. That bastard couldn't fool a blind man waiting at a crosswalk."

The two Foundation suits waiting in the cabin turned to face him, surprised, while Acht, facing him from the front, rolled his eyes.

"Sorry, was that in poor taste?" he asked, still leering. "I mean, the man let us walk out of there with three dozen boxes packed with Tallgeese's spare parts, exactly what did he hope to accomplish with that?"

"I take it you weren't convinced?"

"I think I'm entitled to _some _credit. I didn't just waltz into this job one afternoon after secondary school." He stuck the leather folder in his traveling case near his feet. "Where does that leave us now?"

"Where I thought we'd be. Ahead of schedule." Acht closed his own folder. "The political-intelligence approach is finished, leaving the military approach."

He gave a particular sigh, not one of depression or sadness, so much as discontent. "Just our luck that that Recon is off-world, I could use them right now."

"Recon?" Parsons asked, before awkwardly adding "…sir."

"The Special Recon Battalion, now First Recon. Their specialty is this sort of thing."

"So…that's the military solution?"

"And they call us 'political officers'," he told him sardonically.

**III**

"Who would I need to speak to for a secure line to _Barge_?"

The junior staff officer looked at Flight Lieutenant Walker, who'd just arrived at the General Staff Headquarters in Diekirch, Luxembourg, formerly UESAEUCOM.

She blinked. "You'd have to go to the main communications hall in the North Wing of the Military Centre. The communications staff can take your request directly."

"Thank you."

The communications hall, which routed messages from bases and divisions across Europe, as well as from Luxembourg itself, was a tightly-run operation. The busy officer on his shift escorted him to a secure room with a chair, desk, and a thin computer on the desk.

Walker adjusted his cape and sat down. "I haven't done this myself since I was promoted. How did this go again?"

It took a number of keystrokes and a lot of time staring at scrolling screens displaying long columns of information he didn't fully comprehend, but Walker was able make some headway. The networking software switched to the familiar yellow insignia of the Space Forces. He'd managed to open a channel to the space fortress' main comm station, and the insignia turned to slightly grainy video of a communications officer.

"_Flight Lieutenant Walker, this is Space Fortress _Barge. _Go ahead._"

"Do you have a staff officer Aretha Walker? A-R-E-T-H-A Walker."

"_I have a Second Lieutenant Walker under the command of Squadron Commander Nathaniel._"

_That prideful peacock?_ "That's her. I'll wait for you to patch me through."

"_Standby, Flight Lieutenant_."

As Walker waited, OZ was conducting early morning raids over the Republic of Utah, using deep strikes by the Mobile Suit Troops in an attempt to cut off the Alliance supply lines from the Colorado Springs Mobile Suit Works.

Flight Officer Kaneshiro Kanna, now a replacement flight leader in the 40th Canadian Victoria Cross Airborne Division's 1st Company Squadron 2, led her flight east across the Rocky Mountains and into the combat zone. A tone sounded in the cockpit of her Aries as she adjusted her oxygen mask and her _hachimaki_.

"Okay, guys, this is my first time as acting commander, so I'd like to avoid as many screw ups as possible. Hornet Flight, change altitude to twenty-fifty and arm AGM. Target I-25 and all troop concentrations on the highway."

"_Acknowledged, Hornet Actual._"

"_Affirmative. Tally-ho, mark three, from zero-nine-two. Interceptors._"

"Affirmative," Kanna ordered. "Engage with guns."

The six mobile suits cut through the enemy interceptor aircraft with a swath of lethal chain rifle, forcing them to break off. Having cleared the hostiles, they turned their attention to the defensive positions along I-25 facing Pike's Peak, manned by olive-colored Leo mobile suits armed with autocannons and siege guns.

"_Watch the crossfire and hit the command units!_" Hornet Flight unloaded their missiles onto the highway, consuming a few kilometers of ground in north Colorado Springs in fire. Another tone sounded in her cockpit as she wiped moisture from her goggles.

"_Tally-ho, mark six, from zero-one-two. We've got Aries!_"

Kanna shifted her view and zoomed in on the horizon. Sure enough, a number of Aries mobile suits in Alliance cadet grey were rapidly descending for a counterattack. "_Falcon Actual, this is Hornet Actual. We've marked six inbound Aries, almost directly north, ETA sixty seconds._"

In his cockpit, Falcon Actual nodded and pulled back on his flight stick and pushed forward on his throttle stick, changing his heading. "Acknowledged, Hornet Actual. We're on them."

"Falcon Actual, dive to eighteen fifty, we're going in low. Make 'em shoot us through their own defenses." Kanna's Aries led the dive down to Colorado Springs, chain gun spitting fire in short bursts.

"_What's the plan, Ms. Kaneshiro?_" The North American pilot officer, Kanna's temporary deputy for the Utah Campaign. As the whole flight descended onto the city, they found themselves surrounded by more and more Republic of Utah Mobile Suit Troops, principally OZ-06MS2 'Early Leo' and OZ-07MS 'Tragos' machines dug around Colorado Springs.

Taking cover behind a department store, Kanna extended her machine's legs and touched down, just as her chain rifle clicked empty. Turning the corner, she managed to catch a Leo facing away from her and with her left manipulator, snatched its cranium and dragged it backwards. The Leo awkwardly maintained its footing, only to be struck by Kanna's left manipulator right in the camera housing.

Grinning triumphantly, Kanna pulled her goggles down, letting them rest around her neck. "_I smell blood. Let's see if these Utah guys can fight up close._"

As Kanna tore her way through what was left of the Continental American Military District, Aretha Walker was finally chased down and brought to the comm station, where Oswald Walker was waiting on the other line. The elder Walker sibling nearly jumped out of his seat at the sight of the younger. Her dark brown hair, combed sharply out, now had a bluish twinge to it, and she had a single bleached white streak on the left side. It was far more jarring than the hunter green uniform she wore.

"I didn't really think it was you," she admitted, laughing at Walker's image.

"_What…happened to your hair?_"

She put a hand through the streak. "Oh, do you like it?"

"_You look like some sort of…striped…polecat!_"

She gave him an indignant expression. "Was there a reason you called? I can't remember the last time you called me."

"_Of course there is. We need to discuss some…sensitive things, about the war."_

"What sort of things?"

As though someone else were hurriedly speaking, Walker heard his own voice make a bold bluff. "I have authorization from His Excellency himself. You can check yourself."

Aretha sighed at her end, strumming her fingers. "Fine, what's this?"

"_Outer Space, on 9 June to 10 June._"

Aretha stared at him grainy visage.

"..._the Battle for Barge,_" he demanded.

**IV**

9 June. Exactly three weeks after OZ's successful coup d'état against the Alliance. In contrast with every major Alliance military base on Earth, Space Fortress _Barge _had been spared a massive revolt, but been left isolated, following the last orders from the Alliance Space Forces General Staff: arrest and hold all Speciali officers on suspicion of treason and enforce a strict lockdown on _Barge _itself. OZ waited three whole weeks before directly challenging _Barge _with an attack.

"…what isn't the cannon firing?" the commanding brigadier general asked nervously, as dots marking OZ space troops closed in on the fortress' position.

In the overbridge, the Alliance crew officers frantically checked their diagnostics screens. On each, and orange-tinted schematic of the forward beam cannon shown with one of its compartments highlighted in red.

"The circuit in the first stage accelerator has been disconnected!" one officer announced, pointing at his screen.

"H-How?"

"I-I don't know, sir! We're doing everything we can to determine how this happened, but…as it stands, the main cannon isn't operational!" He put a hand on his headset. "Gunnery, report!"

Many levels below, along _Barge_'s axis, Alliance gunners struggled with a rigged blast door that stubbornly remained shut. Two men worked with crowbars, ripping apart the control panel, while another engineer dragged an industrial torch across the floor. On the other side in the dim light, Colonel Sedici, son of famed dead Colonial revolutionary Artemis Sedici, admired his handwork in the engineering compartment along the beam cannon. A number of screens flashed red warning messages back at him.

"Let's see you fire your precious cannon now," he mumbled, pulling the hem of his uniform. Outside, six flights of OZ Space Leos darted through the minefield and point defenses, hoping to secure a sufficiently-sized hangar for a major boarding operation. When they did, a fast shuttle descended on the hangar and unloaded into an empty hangar more than forty armed combat engineers who specialized in boarding actions. They wore the distinct normal suits of the _Speciali_, colored by gender, and were armed primarily with sight-mounted carbines that fired armor piercing ammunition.

As planned, they encountered very little resistance—at the start of the revolt, _Barge _received lockdown orders from Space Forces HQ on Earth, just like hundreds of Alliance garrisons throughout Earth, before communications were severed entirely. Both Alliance and Speciali troops had codes to bypass said lockdown, the difference being OZ had more of them.

Behind the brigadier general, the supposedly-secure blast doors to the overbridge swung open, revealing a fire team of combat engineers led by Flight Officer Trant Clark, an ex-combat engineer himself.

"Comrade General," Clark said, gesturing with his bulky assault rifle. Caught by surprise, the staff peaceably surrendered their side arms and took positions on the ground. Behind the combat engineers, a number of OZ junior officers, in their normal hunter greens, took their places at the consoles.

"Inform all fire teams we've taken the overbridge," Trant ordered one officer. "And unlock the security checkpoints for the brig."

"Yes sir!"

"Walker!"

"Yes sir?" Aretha Walker, in an Alliance uniform, sat at the communications console. She looked back at Trant.

"Establish contact with Luxembourg immediately," he told her.

"We may have surrendered, but you'll never get the access codes for the Missile Forces' network," the general told him calmly from the floor. "We'll die first."

"I believe that," Trant replied, pulling back his helmet so it rested up on its hinges. He reached into his suit and pulled out a small memory disk that had been hanging from his neck by a chain, then tossed it to Aretha, who caught it. "Plug that in."

"Yes sir." She separated the small disk from the thin chain. "I'll need to go through the main communications system."

Aretha stood up and moved to the room adjacent to the overbridge, sitting down at an empty station and inserted the disk into a nearby drive slot before running it, and then returned to trying to establish a stable link.

Clark took a position behind the general, aiming down the sights at the back of his neck. "We don't need your codes, we just need Luxembourg to be able to use theirs instead."

It took just a few minutes for communications to be established with Earth, albeit weakened by Alliance ECM from somewhere in their vicinity. The next step was to establish control over the orbital silo network belonging to the Missile Branch, which wasn't as easy.

"Incoming transmission from Luxembourg, patching it through."

"This is Second Lieutenant Walker aboard Space Fortress _Barge_," she said, turning away from the missile network. "Colonel Une, can you read me?"

"_I read you, _Barge."

"Colonel, the fortress itself is secure and positioning is complete."

"_Acknowledged, _Barge, _stand by._"

Aretha quietly waited for further orders, which would surely come. "Is the missile network operational?"

"We'll find out."

The speaker crackled again. "Barge_, you are to bring the entire missile network online and arm all active and functioning silos in Earth Sphere._"

"Affirmative, ma'am. We will need authorization from the commander-in-chief to arm nuclear weapons."

Without moving, Une visibly glowered at Aretha so abruptly that she had to fight the urge to jump out of her seat or look away from the static-plagued screen.

"_Very well. OZ Executive Order 512 authorizes the General Staff to act on behalf of the commander-in-chief on matters of nuclear deployment._"

"Both myself and my commanding officer confirm your authorization, arming nuclear missile array now," Aretha said, a little too quickly. "Will you be setting a target?"

A delayed response. "_Negative._"

While Aretha and her comrades accessed the control suite specifically tasked with remote control over the Missile Branch's extraterrestrial arsenal, they could hear Une speak again, addressing someone else.

"_Calling all Gundam pilots! It will interest you to know, thanks to the Alliance missile silos in orbit under our control, OZ is now in a position to stage an all-out attack on the colonies. This is not a bluff._"

On the monitors, video feeds from across points across Earth Sphere relayed the same thing: military satellites in high orbit, each carrying two small silos with a total of four MIRV warheads mounted on powerful launch vehicles. They slowly returned to life, unfolding their solar panels and repositioning themselves with small bursts from their thrust motors.

"_We demand all Gundam pilots surrender at once and relinquish their mobile suits!_"

**V**

"_And that's how it happened._"

Walker sat in the secure room speechless, a first for him.

"_It's still classified, but I figured, what with you being so close to the General Staff and all…_"

_Wonderful, my younger sister is a blabbermouth. What a nice development. _"How do you know that?"

Aretha narrowed her eyes, just as Walker was apt to. "_Because you said you were. And because you were in the background of all those press photographs with His Excellency._"

Walker wasn't immediately aware of what that meant until he thought about it and recalled his time in Bremen, following Treize Khushrenada around, trying to appear useful. He'd likely wandered in and out of photographs that were circulated throughout OZ covering the Foundation's summit. "Of course, I am."

"_Plus, with His Excellency appearing on that Taiwanese talk show, I guess it wasn't bound to remain a secret for much longer._"

"No, I suppose not."

On her end, Aretha gave her elder brother a sympathetic sigh. "But it's not your problem, is it? You're just a lieutenant, after all."

"_Just like that bleached stripe you got. I hope whoever you got it for appreciates it. And I'm a Flight Lieutenant, by the way._"

She gave that exasperated sigh, as Walker visibly looked over his shoulder. "_I'm sorry, Aretha, I'm apparently needed, please give my love to mother,_" he announced quickly.

"_Walker, wait, there's_…" Aretha began, only to be cut off. Walker turned to the junior officer waiting politely at the door.

"Flight Lieutenant Walker?"

"Go ahead, what's happened?"

"Nothing serious, sir, but this was sent to you from Corsica. Automated memo to the officer in command."

Walker took the document he was holding and scanned it, as the officer departed. _Request to begin fabrication for spare parts for OZ-00MS 'Tallgeese'. Existing inventory reported depleted? _He sighed and folded the page up. _What's Zechs up to now?_

**VI**

"Inspector, sir, report for you."

Within an hour of touching down at the airfield at Diekirch, a flight officer walked up to Acht, saluted sharply, and presented him with a note.

"What is it?" Parsons asked before adding "…sir."

"Apparently, a number of civilian detectives in employ of the Romefeller Foundation spotted not one but two of the Gundam pilots..." he began, "…while tailing Flight Lieutenant Noin."

Acht turned to Parsons, folding up the note. "I suppose your woman Cebotari was correct to recommend she be stripped of her rank and peerage immediately. Citizen Noin is now a confirmed enemy of OZ and the governments of Earth."

"More great news," Parsons added sarcastically. "Where were the spotted?"

"Southern Italy. They may still be there." He smiled at Parsons. "'Care for round two?"

"That would depend on when round two begins sir," he said, pointing at the bandages visibly reaching out from under his folding cap.

"I see your point. Make your report to the brass, then call me at our headquarters in Rome." Acht turned and left with two suits in tow. Immediately after saluting, Parsons yanked his mobile out of his pocket, slid out the keyboard, and began rapidly typing out a message with his thumbs as he strolled through the hall.

As Parsons and Acht parted ways, just a few kilometers away in Ansembourg, Treize Khushrenada enjoyed the mild summer afternoon, strolling along the artificial Ronnébsch Reservoir. He'd had many homes through his life, but he always considered Ansenmbourg special, on par with his childhood residence in Zurich. He wore his full dress uniform and black cape when enjoying even a casual walk—convenient, as it forced his 'guest' to also appear in full uniform.

"There are numerous rumors that the Gundam destroyed by Zechs was a decoy. Should we allow him to continue acting on his own like this?"

A good three meters behind him, in her full dress uniform and white cape, Major Eva Cebotari did not respond—partly because she suspected this was a rhetorical question, but also because she was more interested in Treize's answer to that question that would probably follow if she waited.

Detouring from the stone path, he stepped onto a small rowboat dock, Eva following him. A mother and her three children—including a toddler in yellow—were also enjoying the cool summer, and the woman bowed politely in their direction. Treize, then Eva, nodded politely back.

"Zechs has become quite the topic in the Romefeller Foundation," Treize mused aloud.

Eva glanced away from Treize momentarily, looking down the dock. The toddler had wandered to the edge, chasing a small butterfly. The mother noticed her narrowing red eyes and turned in the direction they were staring. The toddler was dangerously close to the edge.

"My boy!" she cried. She was about to take off when Treize did something that surprised even Eva; he stepped in front of her and put a hand out, seemingly stopping her. Discreetly, Eva began undoing her cape on instinct.

"Let's see…" Treize just kept watching. Even more shocking, the mother—who must have recognized one of the most famous political leaders in Earth Sphere—didn't force her way past Treize and looked away. Treize and Eva intently watched as the toddler lost interest in the butterfly, turned around, and slowly rose to his feet, waddling in the direction of his mother, who _now _rushed past the Count.

"The investigation detail is in pursuit from Lake Victoria. But I know Zechs wouldn't do something to trouble me personally. Everyone's worrying about this too much."

Eva finally spoke in her soft, breathy voice. "Just like that mother?"

Treize smirked at the remark. "Your man with Acht should have made his report to the Commissariat and the General Staff by now."

"That's correct." She cocked her head a little, cross her arms under her breast. "I'm sorry, your Excellency."

Treize scoffed at the thought. "I didn't think I would change your mind. You're only doing your duty."

Even as they enjoyed their leisurely chat, thirty minutes away, Parsons stood in a darkened office in video conference with OZ's General Staff, minus its commander-in-chief, as video from his investigation played on the main screen of the General Staff building.

_"What's that?"_ Dr. Cebotari's voice asked through a speaker. From the video it was apparent she was looking at a video of Parsons in turn, holding something in his hand.

"_Inventory listing at Marseille. What they had versus what we recovered. It's evidence that the Gundam rearmed there, maybe as part of the deal._"

_"How do you know they didn't just use or destroy the ammunition?"_

"_They only destroyed _part _of their ammunition dump? I don't buy that._"

Obscured the darkness and illuminated only by the video they watched, OZ's terrestrial General Staff quietly watched the evidence that, slowly but surely, would undo the military career of OZ's greatest living war hero, the Lightning Count.

**VII (Eyecatch)**

On a Royal Danish estate, Relena Darlian admired the landscape while her butler Pagan—what was left of her household staff—used an obsolete computer to browse the Network for useful information.

"Miss, I can't confirm if the pilot of the Gundam that self-detonated in Mirny is dead or alive."

"I see," Relena mumbled.

"I've been trying to get hold of the OZ pilot that fought the Gundam, Colonel Zechs Merquise. But he's already departed from Lake Victoria, where he seemed to be posted."

"So we still don't know anything?"

"I may have found out something rather strange, through a source inside the military."

"Like what?"

"Colonel Zechs did something rather peculiar. After the battle in Siberia, he ordered a large amount of Gundanium alloy shipped to Earth, probably from Luna."

"So…he could reconstruct the Gundam from the remains collected, you mean? I remember hearing at the summit that Zechs Merquise was ordered to destroy what was left to appease the suspicion of the hardliners in OZ," Relena pointed out, unknowingly confusing the Romefeller Foundation and OZ itself.

"According to the same source, the Gundam that was publicly destroyed in Africa was no more than a decoy."

"A decoy?"

"It seems as though OZ's headquarters tracked shipments of enough Gundanium to produce an entirely new mobile suit and more."

"So they used all that material to reconstruct both the Gundam and the decoy?"

"It appears so, miss."

"What exactly is so special about this Gundam anyway?"

"If I had to guess, miss, I'd say the colonel wants to finish his ongoing duel with the pilot. That's the sort of man Zechs Merquise is." Pagan put his hands together. "You wouldn't know this, but thirteen years ago, when he was still a child, I trained him in fencing. What he lacked in form and experience, he made up in vigor. After I split my foil, he immediately gave me another and apologized. He was always the type that hated his opponent being handicapped in any way."

Relena looked at him in disbelief. "So you know this Colonel Zechs?"

"He was a hero to the Peacecraft dynasty. There are many stories of his valor," was Pagan's awkward-sounding answer.

"Interesting. If I could just speak to this colonel, I might be able to finally find out what happened to Heero after all these weeks."

Pagan nodded, looking back at his outdated computer. On the monitor were scans of a number of different newspapers covering the same story: OZ's controversial Siberian strategy. One headline read "World Assembly Reply: 'OZ Action was Justified' alongside an insert of a smiling Treize Khushrenada from AC 194.

**VIII**

"_I knew you'd find him alive, Noin._"

"You were right, sir. He's got a strong survival instinct."

From his location at the main warehouse at the Barclay Kamb Naval Base on the Filchner-Ronne Ice Shelf of Antarctica, Lieutenant Colonel Zechs Mequise stared at the grainy video of Lieutenant Noin.

"_I appreciate your assistance, and I'm sorry to drag you into all this."_

"You're not the only mobile suit pilot, Zechs. I can appreciate your feelings to a certain extent."

"_Thank you, Noin. Watch your step around the search parties, there's nothing I can do to help you out from here. You'll need to keep a step ahead of them._"

"I'll take care of it. Over and out," she promised, as the channel ended. Noin paused for a minute in flight deck of the supersonic Tupolev mobile suit carrier. "Mr. O'Brien?"

F/O O'Brien was a veteran of the First Recon Battalion who'd be transferred out due to injury. Recon officers in the OZ's Mobile Suit Troops, the elite of the elite, were always in demand and she countered herself fortunate to have secured him—having spent the years as an instructor, she had few reliable subordinates with combat experience. However, she did get the feeling O'Brien wasn't happy to be here, even if he hid it well.

"Ma'am," he said, saluting. "Final preparations made, we're ready to depart."

"Thanks, O'Brien. We'll depart in five. I know you haven't been enjoying our time together."

O'Brien glanced down the back of the flight deck. Through the open door to the main hold, he could see three very dangerous things: two Gundam pilots, Heero Yuy and Trowa Barton, along with Gundam-03, one of the most dangerous mobile suits in Earth Sphere.

"What gave you that idea, ma'am?" he said, as he approached the open plug door on the side of the flight deck.

As the Tupolev bobbed up and down in the Mediterranean Sea, in the Italian seaside town two black BMW sedans owned by the Military Commissariat came to halt along the street, five minutes apart. Inside the earlier vehicle, Inspector Acht had quietly watched as a bright light flashed three times quickly. Out of the other vehicle, a private detective hired by the Foundation, sporting a dark suit and a bandage from an unflattering encounter with the Gundam pilots earlier that day, entered through the right-side passenger door, sitting down next to him.

"We're certain they're using an OZ carrier."

"Is that so? This must be it then."

"So you'll just let them depart?" the detective asked.

"Patience. They're going to play their hand very soon now. We'll just keep tracking them until this story reaches its end."

There was the distant whine of the Tupolev's four powerful turbines spinning to life. Without taxiing, the jet took off violently, casting a wake after it.

"And how are you doing that? I've had bad luck following Gundam pilots by car."

"An officer reassigned to Noin's command. We convinced him to play ball after he revealed Noin's already been canned and is acting without authority."

"That sounds reliable enough. If you had a man on the inside earlier, we might have avoided all this."

"Maybe not. He's one of those proud-and-mighty Recon pilots, I believe he's under the impression that he can spare Zechs _and _Noin dishonor if he stops this himself." He scoffed sadly, then smiled. "Either way, I won't let them have their way this time."

In the Tupolev's flight deck, Noin and O'Brien watched as Heero Yuy struggled in the cockpit of Gundam-03 and his injured left arm.

"Watching them work like this, they're no different from any other young pilots."

O'Brien resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "You know, we could spare the colonel and further danger or dishonor by getting rid of them right now," he whispered to her.

Noin put a gloved hand on his shoulder and shook her head. "You don't understand. Zechs would never forgive us if we did such a thing."

Having made her point, she walked towards the front of the flight deck, as O'Brien watched her. _And you think OZ will forgive us for this? _

**IX**

"_A member at of the technical staff at Barclay Kamb Naval Station claimed not only is Zechs Merquise there, he's brought mobile suit that his personal engineering staff is going to great lengths to conceal._"

"The things high officers do on their down time. It's hardly proof though."

"_All the same, she's the best lead we've had. I can confirm that aircraft from the South African Air Army are already up to force Noin to divert over the Atlantic, and ground troops are deployed on the Antarctica Peninsula,_" On the video conferencing screen, Parsons looked up from the report he was holding. "_Are you sure you want to do this? The Commissariat hasn't ruled one way or the other yet._"

In the hangar in southern Italy, Acht turned to a video of Parsons, already having donned his full Alliance Air Force winter service uniform. "You know, Parsons, I admit I find your empathy a little…surprising. But yes, I do. I'm not chancing it taking any less than an eye-witness account to bring down the great Lightning Count, OZ's greatest hero Zechs Merquise."

He began adjusting his helmet. "And before you ask, Office Cadet, you're not joining us. I have flights from the Eighty-Eight, both Aries and Leo, standing by to join me. It's not that you're a bad pilot, but I think this might be out of your league."

"_I understand…sir._"

"Good chap. Give my regards to our voluptuous comrade, the good doctor."

Parsons gave him one last smart salute, before the transmission ended. As such, he missed the young man's extremely malicious grin right after the conference ended.

**X**

"Flight Lieutenant Walker, sir." Walker turned to see the same junior officer from the Luxembourg Base staff.

"Hello again."

"Right, sir, good evening again. I just wanted to personally report that Corsica confirmed _your _confirmation to begin fabricating parts for the Tallgeese."

"I'm glad to hear it. It would be unfortunate to have to ground such a powerful machine because of a lack of spare parts."

"Or such a powerful pilot," the junior officer added. "If I may say so."

Walker gave him an inscrutably neutral expression. "That too."

Afterwards, the same officer reported Dr. Eva Cebotari's return from Ansembourg to the Military Commissariat, leading Parsons to hurry to her office where she was waiting.

"Acht is off to 'handle' the Zechs matter," he announced as he entered Eva's dimly-lit office, pulling off his cap and then the gauze around his forehead, which he tossed into a nearby rubbish bin.

"Beautifully done, E.P., we're glad to have you back in the Commissariat," she told him, smiling smugly from atop her desk. "Especially after that scare in Marseilles. Things were less exciting here."

Parsons almost laughed. "I don't know if I'd call feeding secrets to the Darlian Family's naïve butler exciting, though I see your point. All that's left is for Acht to handle it," he explained cheerfully. His Londoner accent seemed stronger than usual. "Though given that he's going after Zechs…" he said, putting his right hand over his neck like the flat blade of an execution's axe, his expression imitating the condemned.

"….he's probably not long for this world either, 'long with Zechs!" he said, his tongue out.

Eva's response was less friendly. "Be patient. Zechs is still of considerable value to OZ, he can't just be lined up before a wall and shot."

"I don't care what they do with him, Doctor," he said, referring more generally to the ranking military officials in the department. "Just ensure he doesn't slip away after all this."

Parsons closed his eyes and smiled childishly, his white teeth bellying his malicious thoughts. "Although even if he kills Acht, I don't expect he's getting past his carnival troupe, no one ever does!"

He was referring to Jagdstaffeln 88. Eva's demeanor became colder and more analytic. "I gave the deputy commander direct orders not to harm Zechs or his accomplices, but that ensures nothing. They are a bunch of Alliance idiots after all."

"It just adds to his rap sheet. If the list gets too big, just get rid of all of them."

**XI**

Still chief of Zechs' engineering detail at Barclay Kamb, Mieser held Bishop's notes in one hand, trying to decipher her strange shorthand. He quickly hid them in his pockets as Zechs approached.

"Sir, we've completed the latest survey: all performance has been restored to the best of our determination."

Zechs was on edge. "Measuring performance isn't enough. I want this Gundam perfectly restored!"

Just as Bishop had warned, it was starting to get to Mieser, though earlier than he expected. "Is that really necessary, sir?"

Zechs kept his eyes on the ornate-designed white mobile suit. "I need to know more. More about this mobile suit, more about this pilot."

"We may not be able to perfectly recreate the right arm. The hydraulic pistols needed to fire a beam cannon that massive alongside the precision servomotors to perfectly control a beam saber…Lake Victoria's not Corsica. We would have needed as much as it'd take to build an entirely new mobile suit for it alone."

On the floor of the hangar, XXXG-01W's beam cannon, dubbed a "buster rifle" in the machine's computer, remained in pieces. Zechs gave a sigh. "Then at least complete the systems needed for the beam saber. Use the spare parts we have from Tallgeese."

_I don't know if you guys see it or not, gramps, but you gotta' know that Zechs is losing it._ Bishop's words echoed in Mieser's mind once more. He wasn't sure if he was just blind to the obvious, or it was the act of having been dragged to Antarctica of all places, but he was beginning to think she'd been right. "Colonel, I have to ask, what are you trying to prove?"

"Please, Mieser, indulge me for now."

What could he do? "As you wish sir." As Zechs departed, he leaned over the guardrail and looked down to the floor. "Everyone, listen up! New orders on restoring Wing Gundam's arm!"

A few hundred kilometers away, as their aircraft was crossing over the Antarctic coast, two Gundam pilots were still in discussion over their own plans when they were interrupted.

"Lieutenant, we've got a problem!" O'Brien announced loudly. He ran over to Noin whom, like himself and the two Gundam pilots, wore OZ's light winter coats. "We've detected multiple aircraft on intercept course!"

"They found us. Interceptors?"

"No, carriers. They just appeared on radar a few seconds ago."

Noin crossed her arms. "There's no avoiding math—they know our flight range, they can guess where we're landing."

"Should we divert?"

"Negative. We have two Aries on board, we may have to sacrifice them." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw O'Brien was visibly disturbed. "_Use them. _That way, we at least have a fighting chance if it comes to that."

He swallowed. "Yes, ma'am!"

Trowa Barton watched O'Brien take off prepare to sortie. "Stop lying. You wouldn't do anything to trouble Zechs."

"You'll be overwhelmed in only two Aries," Heero Yuy observed, less curtly.

"My mission is to get you to the destination safely." Within minutes, both Noin and O'Brien's OZ-07AMS 'Aries' were deployed and released from the Tupolev mothership, callsigns Valkyrie 1 and Valkyrie 2.

A few kilometers away at their 6 o'clock, four large airborne carriers—Antonov strategic airlifters in old Alliance livery—belonging to Jagdstaffeln 88 kept their distance while monitoring the situation. They watched as Noin's fern green OZ-07AMSK and O'Brien's black OZ-07AMS freefell into the thick cloud layer below. In response, they deployed their own cadet grey Aries in a similar manner.

"Valkyrie 2, let's go!" Noin shouted.

"_Affirmative!_"

They rose from the cloud cover directly at the carrier group's 12 o'clock and strafed the lead aircraft's port turbines, immediately blowing them apart. The first carrier began to descend.

"_Carrier 1's going down!_"

"_Affirmative, stay sharp, O'Brien!_"

Noin and O'Brien split up, as O'Brien attempted to divert fire so Noin could strike at the second carrier, while four enemy Aries responded with missile and chain fire. One Aries wandered a little too far from the rest of his flight and Noin caught him in a burst of chain fire as she rose to meet the second carrier—it went down quickly.

Two hostile Aries turned their fire on O'Brien, who just barely managed to avoid getting hit. Adjusting his leather helmet and heavy goggles, O'Brien checked his HUD, watching another carrier begin to trail smoke. "One more hit and Carrier 2's down!"

The both turned their fire on two remaining Aries, tearing through them and sending them below the cloud cover.

"_That leaves one! Get back into the clouds for cover!_"

"_Negative, ma'am, I've got a clear shot on Carrier 2!_"

Swept up in the moment, O'Brien missed a single Aries rise out from cloud cover behind him, not trailing smoke and turbofans at full power.

"Sorry, O'Brien, but you're mine!" Major Acht said in the cockpit of his own machine, before opening with a burst of fire. He deliberately targeted O'Brien's starboard leg and lower turbine—after all, he didn't want to kill a loyal OZ officer—and scored a direct hit.

"_Shit!_"

Acht kept up the fire, forcing him to dive into the thick clouds to escape.

_O'Brien! _Instinctively, Noin dove through the clouds and upon emerging underneath, spotted O'Brien's machine having landed on the ice shelf, still holding its chain rifle. She extended her own legs and landed adjacently. "O'Brien, are you all right?"

"Sorry, Lieutenant, I got careless!"

"Forget it, can you get to your feet?"

O'Brien was about to answer when a tone sounded and his radar filled with new contacts. "Lieutenant!"

Hers did the same. "Shit, reinforcements?"

As the three remaining carriers passed over, they rained down their remaining compliment of mobile suits—the rest of Jagdstaffeln 88, a mixture of old and new model Leos and Aries, all in Alliance livery.

"Let's end this charade, there's a Gundam waiting for me after all. All units, warm them up!" Acht growled cheerfully.

Taking care not to directly hit, Jagdstaffeln 88 laid down a crossfire over the two Aries. A burst of fire from a Leo blew off O'Brien's arms, effectively crippling his machine.

"_That's enough! We surrender, just stop firing!_" Noin's machine discarded its still-hot chain rifle, tossing it into the snow in a cloud of snow and water vapor.

Acht personally responded. "_Lieutenant, do you think the same rules apply to enemies of the Romefeller Foundation? I might be persuaded, however, if you hand over the Gundam in your possession as proof of Zechs' conspiracy. It won't change things for him though, he is finished. I look forward to being the officer who defeated the legendary Lighting Count._"

"You're still not getting anywhere near Zechs!"

Acht grinned. "So Zechs is here in person after all!"

It then dawned on Noin she'd been played for a fool. "Damn you!"

Acht was about to give the order to fire when his radar pinged again.

"_Carrier inbound, three-three-zero, speed eight hundred!_"

The blue Tupolev carrier had dove into to supply cover fire for its imperiled mobile suit troops, opening fire with both its beam turret and its dual chemical laser gun, which cut cleanly through the armor on Leos before crippling them. But it wasn't the carrier that was the problem: its rear cargo ramp was still lowered, and as it circled around for what appeared to be another strafing run it was struck by one of Jagdstaffeln 88's Leos. The shell from the dober gun failed to down the aircraft, and as it passed over, a third mobile suit dropped out, this one white, orange and red.

"_Gundam Zero-Three!_"

"All units, regroup and concentrate your fire on the Gundam!" Acht cried out.

As the squadron attempted to fall back and regroup, Trowa Barton checked the array of enemy contacts highlighted on his HUD, then his weapons computer. "Any Gundam attack will be used to justify an attack on the colonies. That means no witnesses," he mumbled to himself.

"_This is Jagdstaffeln 88! We're fighting off Zechs' rogue flight at point one-oh-three in the Antarctica Peninsula!_"

Even as the Gundam swept its fire through the enemy squadron, O'Brien felt his instincts trying to take over—he'd been in the _Speciali _before the Revolution, and he had to fight the urge to place himself in opposition to Gundam as it slaughtered the ex-Alliance men in the unit.

"_Those who've laid eyes on a Gundam shall not live. Those are my orders._"

He watched Acht's Aries get its ultracompact fusion reactor shot out as it tried to flee, plummeting back into the snow drift. He was now trying to crawl away, when on his port display screen, Noin's cockpit was shown opening up.

"_This is Jagdstaffeln 88! Zech's rogue flight has a Gundam! Someone respond!_"

"_That's enough, Trowa! Stop!_"

Gundam-03 leisurely strolled up to Acht's mobile suit, its reactor spilling deuterium into the atmosphere and crackling and smoking, still trying to limp away. There was another crackle of splitting armor and Acht screamed once more.

"_THERE'S A GUNDAM DOWN HERE!_"

The Gundam extended its retracted blade, and in a sweeping motion, tore the mobile suit's thinner aft armor to pieces, as it exploded in a fireball, sending Acht, and the Aries, across the snowdrift in a shower.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_If it weren't already apparent, there's really only one woman who I'd think of voicing Eva Cebotari in English: Laura Bailey. But that's pretty obvious, I suspect. Perhaps not as obvious as who Pagan's "source" is.  
><em>

_Walker didn't appear much in this, did he? Neither did Emi or the other usual suspects, for that matter. Aretha did, however. I seriously considered having Walker be in a sort of "drop in" in the role of the OZ pilot who accompanied Noin to fight Acht, but ultimately decided against it (and made the character O'Brien instead), simply because it seemed both too unseemly (having Walker agree to Zechs' behavior) and having Walker get his butt shot out again. _

_This was also a shorter chapter. I was tired of writing exclusively long chapters. Seeing how we just finished episode 15, I'm pretty confident this is still going to take a _long _time, I might as well put it into small, easily digestible portions. _


	24. The Foolish Battle

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 24 – The Foolish Battle**

"'Morning cadets, I'm Flight Lieutenant Walker," he said, introducing himself.

Still confined to continental Europe, Flight Lieutenant Oswald Walker was asked to temporarily teach a few technical classes in Luxembourg's small academy. It was not Lake Victoria by any stretch of the imagination, but as Walker was asking to teach engineering, not tactics or combat, it was a good fit.

He appeared before a classroom with fifteen Mobile Suit Troops cadets, bound not for combat divisions but for the factories at Omsk, Corsica and Baotou. They rose to their feet and stood at attention before he gestured at them to sit down. In the front of the room, over the white board, was an old fashion pull-down screen, which he gave a good pull, revealing a printed schematic diagram of a Leo mobile suit.

"First row, third from the left, what model Leo is this?" he asked before he turned back to them. Not knowing their names wasn't an issue.

The O/C immediately rose and squinted at the screen through his glasses. "That's…an OZ-06MS3, sir, 'Leo-C'."

"How do you know that?"

"You can see the shoulder armor mantle and ERA blocks on both shoulder joints, but it still has some of the older Leo design features."

"Very good," he said, pointing at a different part of the schematic, at the 105 mm autocannon. "Second row, first on the left, what is this?"

The other cadet jolted to his feet. "…the…the stock of a Leo autocannnon."

"And?"

"…and the hydraulic mechanism for the folding stock."

"Correct. What purpose does it serve?"

"The autocannon's housing is so long it can be awkward to hold or be obstructed by the torso. So the stock unfolds into two parts that can be braced against the main chassis."

"Can someone give the cycling time for a hundred-and-five millimeter round loaded from the drum versus loaded from the box magazine?"

A hand went up. "Three-point-two seconds versus five-point-eight."

"So why don't we always use the faster drum magazine?" he asked.

"Because…carrying around a drum of a hundred ten-point-five centimeter shells on the outside of a Leo is a little awkward, and loading a drum under fire is…very difficult."

"And because said drum includes the rifle's carrying handle," Walker finished for him. He put his hands behind his back and thought for a moment. "Scenario: a Leo pilot is advancing under light fire in the ninety millimeter range from a defensive ridgeline between two thousand and three thousand directly ahead. A high explosive round hits his or her machine over the waist, doesn't penetrate, but does substantially reduce the pilot's field of vision."

A few hands shot up. "It did not damage his camera in any way," he told them and the hands went down. "Now this is another softball, people, not that hard."

A reluctant hand came up in the back row.

"Yes?"

She stood up and pointed at her neck with her left hand. "It's a Leo-D or newer, and the shot landed between the clavicle armor and mandible. Jammed the servomotor under the cranium, basically returned it to the old Leo's F.O.V.."

Walker nodded. "Finally, thank you." He pointed at the screen. "After the Leo-D, the mobile suit received a limited degree of head movement through the addition of a motor, modular cranium housing and separate mandible construction. Instead of one plate, just like on the Leo Prototype and subsequent models, the armor was divided between three main parts."

Another hand went up and Walker gestured at the cadet.

"Sir, when you say 'Leo Prototype', do you mean the Tallgeese."

He blinked. "Yes, OZ-00MS."

"Weren't you involved in its restoration and redeployment?"

"I was," he said, pulling on the screen and letting it reel back in. "I know this focus on the Leo might seem impractical given that all new Leo production has been halted, but it will be extremely helpful in engineering for all mobile suits. Likewise, some of you will be assigned to the new Colonial militias as technical advisors and experts on the venerated Leo."

He turned back to them. "Are there any other questions?"

Abruptly, almost every cadet raised their hand.

"Any of them not pertaining to Lieutenant Colonel Zechs Merquise?"

Almost all of them went down.

**II**

Even in the air conditioned interior of MO-II, Flight Officer Indira Syed Khan felt uncomfortable. OZ's military normal suits were supposed to be the best space suits ever mass produced, designed for comfort, temperature controlled, a good fit for people of various sizes. The usual color choices—one for women, one for men—didn't bother Indira, so much as the suit simply wasn't as comfortable as the not-exactly-comfortable wool dress uniforms she was used to.

Adjusting her tightly bound bun, Indira undid the latch on her helmet and sat it down on the table in the cafeteria, next to Flight Officer Tsujimoto. Nabiki was munching away biscuit sticks dipped in milk chocolate, and did not acknowledge her. At the other end of the table, Flight Office Motta waved.

"More chocolate, eh? Can't blame you, the food here is awful."

"Well, it _is _just a staging area for Earth."

"No kidding. The food tastes like it. We can't get to _Barge _too soon."

"Good news: we're not going to _Barge_."

The two turned in the direction of the hall to see Flight Lieutenant Ogasawara being pulled through the hall to the cafeteria by the motorized guide rail. Letting go of the handhold at the end, inertia brought her over to the table, and she expertly flipped in midair to orient herself.

"How is that good news again?"

Emi seemed to ignore Indira and instead unhooked a bulky, military-grade handheld projector from the utility built she wore over her formfitting suit. Propping one leg up on a chair, she held the projector in one hand and shown it onto the dark tabletop. "Second Division's spearheading a major operation."

"And the target's Colony L3-C-421 in the third Lagrange point?" Indira asked. "So, what, is there a taskforce in the area?"

"No, just a 191st Mixed Assault Battalion."

"Wait, Assault Battalion?" Motta asked. "Don't you mean Pioneer Battalion?"

"No."

"But that would mean we'd be fighting _inside _a colony," Motta pointed out. "Which is, you know, catastrophic. Maybe suicidal."

"An assault on an _occupied_ colony? Has that ever been attempted?" Indira asked.

"No, OZ has only entered colonies where the Alliance Space Forces evacuated. This'll be the first." She looked at them spitefully. "Do _any_ of you read the daily briefings?"

"Too busy," Nabiki said being bites.

"I…uh…like to sleep in when I can," Indira offered.

Emi looked away silently for a moment before turning back to the projected video, which changed from a map of L3 to the internal geography of C-421. "Command has picked C-421 for its low enemy presence and its isolation from potential reinforcements. First Recon will insert first, conduct survey than battlefield shaping to confine the defenders to these sectors," she said, as the map highlighted a number of compartments in the colony. "We'll be joined by Clarkson's and Armonia's Squadrons, for a total of twelve Taurus and six Leo mobile suits."

"And what's the rest of the Second Division doing? Picking their noses?" Indira demanded.

"Securing the local space."

"I should have destroyed my leg back in Belarus," Motta mumbled.

"Stop whining. If the Alliance could do it a decade ago, OZ can do it today."

Nabiki spoke, actually sounding concerned. "Now, I'm not a historian, but didn't the Alliance do this fighting against tanks, rocket launchers, and suicide bombers?"

"And get to do it against mobile suits," Emi said, smacking Nabiki on the back hard enough to drop her box of snacks and clench down on her teeth. "Suit up, we leave in fifteen."

"Think of it this way," Indira offered. "We are OZ. This is the responsible thing to do."

**III**

"Now I wish I'd died," Flight Officer O'Brien announced sardonically, watching his crippled OZ-07AMS 'Aries' being carried down the Tupolev carrier's ramp on a blue trailer, followed by Gundam-03. "It'd have been the responsible thing."

He watched as Zechs Merquise approached Lucrezia Noin and the two Gundam pilots and introduce himself.

"We killed a dozen fellow OZ soldiers to bring them here," he continued, speaking to no-one in particular, as he sat in the shadow of the carrier, Antarctic wind blowing, at the small airfield at Barclay Kamb Naval Station. "And for what?"

He turned to a nearby ground crewman who didn't appear to be listening. "Christ Almighty, other armies execute terrorists and prisoners-of-war, we bring them and shit to the South Pole to joust. What the hell is wrong with us?"

Underneath Barclay Kamb, Zechs proceeded through a lit hallway to the hangar complex, followed by the two Gundam pilots and then Noin.

"Heero Yuy, is it? Same as the leader of the colonial unity movement. Is that your real name?" he asked, glancing at the younger, smaller pilot.

"Are you using your real name?"

"Pardon me," he said with a chuckle. "I suppose there's no point to names now. We've prepared a friendly reception, try and make yourselves at home."

At the end of that hallway was an underground service hall was a large underground hangar, and when the doors pulled back, revealing the restored XXXG-01W 'Wing' Gundam standing behind a gantry. Its original pilot just stared at it, slack-jawed, for a moment. "My mobile suit."

"Do you like it?"

"Colonel Zechs! The repairs to Zero-One have been complete!" The chief of the engineer staff ran up to join them. "All that's left are the operating adjustments."

Zechs gestured at him with a gloved hand. "Let me introduce you: this is Mieser, chief of the team that restored your Gundam."

"'Pleasure, sir," he parroted out. It was the sort of statement that was a formality and was not to be taken literally by any stretch of the imagination. "All that's left is adjusting the cockpit to suit yourself."

"Mieser's young, but he's a top-rate engineer, one of the best I know."

Unsurprisingly, the Gundam pilot didn't care. "When can we begin?"

"How about tomorrow morning?"

"Very well."

Silent to that point, Noin spoke. "Heero Yuy, isn't there something you'd like to say to Colonel Zechs?"

Mieser had to hold back a burst of inappropriate laughter—Noin had taken a tone that reminded him of his own mother mother than anything. The pilot didn't find it funny. "I'll thank him, but in my own way."

He looked at the chrome-masked man. "I'll kill you, Zechs. That'll be my expression of gratitude."

Zechs seemed to smile a little bit at the thought, as Heero raised his hand. "I apologize, I've never shaken someone's hand before."

Without a word, Zechs took his hand and held it in his hand.

**IV**

As a privilege of her multiple families considerable wealth, taking her private VTOL jet to the Lake Victoria Academy was a small task for Relena Darlian, and even with its outdated codes, OZ as usual was reluctant to fire upon any unarmed aircraft with a diplomatic IFF code. There was no choice but to let her land and direct her to the only person who might help her.

It was not who Relena expected. Sitting in an office, atop a suitcase, in an oversized engineer's work suit, was a somewhat older Caucasian woman with long blond hair in two ponytails and a multitude of short braids. Her jumpsuit was unzipped far enough Relena could see the bright yellow bikini she was wearing underneath it.

Definitely not what she expected. _Who on Earth is this bimbo?_

"As I already said, we destroyed Gundam Zero-One. There's _nothing _left," the woman repeated insistently, only opening one eye.

"Then I'll meet Colonel Zechs Merquise and determine if that's true for myself."

_Who is this drama queen? _"The Colonel isn't here." _And I bet he's not going to be a colonel for long either. _

"Then let me meet Lieutenant Noin, who was in charge. Tell her it's Relena Peacecraft."

_Drama queen with a stupid name. _"Didn't you hear me?"

Relena's elderly butler cut them off when he got a call on his mobile. "Pardon me." Whatever he heard on it was enough, as he quickly took Relena's attention and whispered something to her.

"Very well, that'll do," she said aloud, before turning back to the blond woman. "Well then, I'm sorry to take time, Miss…Engineer."

"Hey!" she snapped back. "I have a _name_. Rachel."

Relena repeated herself, not sounding at all sincere. "I'm sorry again, Ms. Rachel."

The two departed leaving her to wait in her the office. As she watched the VTOL jet take off through the window, she got off her suitcase and switched on the computer on the desk.

"Figures a freak like Zechs has weirdoes looking for him," she mumbled under her breath while she looked through the recent contacts on the video conference. It's was Noin's office, and she fully expected to find a line to wherever Zechs was now. She wasn't entirely surprised with Noin—whom she only recognized through by the portrait on the wall—was the one who answered.

"_Who is this? What are you doing in my office?_"

"Hey! Shut up!" she snapped back in a high-pitched voice. "It's bad enough that I'm still here, but now _you _and your boyfriend the Lightning Count have a new problem."

"…_do I know you? Have we met before?_"

"Who knows? I know a bunch of you officers, and most of you look the same! Now do you want to hear the bad news or not?"

**V**

After a few morning classes, Walker had a section of soon-to-be graduated officer cadets, twelve men and six women. They were between the ages of fifteen and twenty, and now stood before him outdoors, in their hunter greens.

"The eighteen of you are to be incorporated into the Eleventh Order of the Sword Airborne Division of the Second Air Army, Scandinavian District. Accordingly, each of you has more than a hundred hours in training aircraft, alongside between one-hundred and fifty and two-hundred hours in simulators and Leo mobile suits." He unrolled his sleeves. "How many of you have actually flown one of these machines?" he asked, pointing back with a thumb at the black-and-grey monument, a decommissioned Aries erected on pylons.

The cadets stood very still.

"I thought so," Walker replied. "This is an early model OZ-Zero-Seven-A-M-S Aries, originally part of the First Special Airborne Division in the West European Air Army, one of the Alliance's first Aries units. It's very similar to the machines you yourselves will eventually pilot: while its performance isn't as high, it carries the same external equipment, features a similar powerplant of six turbofans: one in each shoulder housing, one in each thigh housing, and one on each wingtip, and the same layout. We even use the same livery we used during our days as the Speciali."

One soldier carefully raised her hand. "Livery, sir?"

Her comrade elbowed her. "He means color scheme, dumbass."

He ignored them and continued. "Your current mobile suit experience is with the Leo, the predecessor to OZ's specialized mobile suit armory. You'll be immediately familiar with the standard OZ cockpit, as well as ground operation, but beyond that, you'll find the Aries is a radically different machine. Capable of prolonged flight, the Aries is a tonne heavier dry. Its design is more modular, with systems distributed towards the limbs to allow for a more aerodynamic design and better weight distribution. It uses an ultracompact fusion reactor with a higher output than the Leo's, mounted in a separate pod behind the chassis. By comparison, the Leo mounts its reactor within the main body, immediately behind the cockpit. What this means for you is a machine that is simultaneously heavier and faster than the Leo, capable of incredible maneuverability in the air but top-heavy and potentially clumsy on the ground. Before I continue, are there any questions?"

One young man raised a hand.

"Go ahead."

"Sir, if the new Taurus design is already operational, why is the Aries still OZ's airborne unit? Isn't the Taurus better armed, better armored, and faster?"

Walker regarded the young man for a moment, while donning the small headset he was holding in a hand. "To elaborate, the Taurus is OZ's extraterrestrial unit. Leos are no longer manufactured for the OZ Space Forces, with the colonies operating the only new units. And a variant of the Taurus does exist that can operate in Earth's atmosphere, with the use of turborockets as a powerplant. Like the original model, terrestrial Tauruses would carry a beam rifle that could kill a Leo in a single shot, or a beam cannon that, in my own experience, could cripple or destroy a space cruiser."

He fixed the headset onto his right ear. "So why don't we adopt it on Earth? That's a reasonable question. I'll show you why." He began speaking into the headset. "Eagle Actual, are you standing by? Go ahead with the maneuver."

Walker stood very still in front of the class, which looked around anxious and waited, when a single cadet grey Aries abruptly dropped from the sky and circled around the monument in a tight circle, no more than a mobile suit length from it. The visiting tourists immediately scattered. The thrust was nearly strong enough to knock them over, and blew away Walker's cap.

"This is Captain Miller of _Jagdstaffeln _88!" Walker yelled, covering both ears. "The captain is demonstrating the maneuverability of the Aries in a capable pilot, which the Taurus could not currently match. The difference is in the powerplant, namely, the vector-thrusting offered by the Aries' six turbofan engines versus the Taurus' bank of four rocket engines. The Aries also features wings with lift surfaces and their own air intakes, superior to the Taurus', which are designed for space combat."

His uniform blowing against his slender frame, Walker turned towards the mobile and made a hand gesture. Immediately, the grey Aries hovered in midair and exited fighter mode, lowering its legs and unfolding its feet. Carefully, it landed adjacent to the monument, raising its chain rifle. The clamshell cockpit pod opened and a pilot in a drab olive Alliance Air Force uniform descended on a tether.

Miller removed his old-fashion leather helmet and approached Walker, who shook his head.

"Any questions for Captain Miller?" Walker asked, fixing his uniform.

A number of hands shot up simultaneously, and Walker picked one.

"What's with the uniform, sir?"

Miller glanced down at his feet. "All the pilots in Jagdstaffeln 88 wear their old uniforms. It's the same reason we've kept our old livery."

_Is that the reason why all the specialized squadrons Romefeller sponsors do the same? _Walker thought, as Miller took other questions about his hardware.

While the students scoped out and poked about the mobile suit, Miller sat down with Walker to enjoy an outdoor lunch on campus.

"I'm sorry I can't stay longer, but the 'Eighty-Eight is departing on assignment today."

"I appreciate you taking your time out as it is," Walker explained. "Do you know where?"

Miller gave a sympathetic shrug before taking another bite of his sandwich.

"Of course. Jagdstaffeln 88 is famous for covert assignments. I've heard Jagdstaffeln 13 is also moving out this afternoon from Geneva."

Miller put down his sandwich. "How do you find out about these sort of things?" he asked incredulously.

Walker crinkled his lunch bag into a paper ball and tossed it into a nearby rubbish bin. Standing up from the bench he'd shared with Miller, he stuck out his hand. "Whatever it is, good luck Captain."

"Thank you, Flight Lieutenant."

As Walker departed, Miller looked at his left sleeve. "We really need new uniforms, don't we? Wearing these colors is taunting fate."

**VI**

"He doesn't trust me, does he?" Mieser observed to Trowa Barton, as Heero Yuy inspected his restored Gundam.

"It's not that. He's just rather protective of his machine."

"But still…" Mieser was about to repeat Rachel Bishop's claim that they were all mad when he cut himself off.

"The self-detonation device isn't armed," Yuy explained.

"The Colonel said you wouldn't need it."

"So Zechs has a few regrets since the last battle," Barton mumbled. "This time he wants to fight it out."

Both noticed Yuy's attention shifting to the Gundam-03, next to Gundam-01.

"Aren't you taking your Gundam?" Barton asked.

"I'd rather use yours after all."

"Because?"

"Frankly this generosity is blurring the focus on combat."

"Since when is that an issue with you?"

A few minutes later, in the hangar where OZ-00MS 'Tallgeese' was housed, Mieser reported the impromptu switch to Colonel Zechs. "So, he'd rather fight with Zero-Three than Zero-One?"

"What in the world is the matter with them?" Mieser asked exasperatedly.

"He sees our gift as some sort of charity. I should have expected this."

Watching a crane move ammunition for Tallgeese's siege cannon, Jim spoke up. "Sir, there's still time to take the replacement parts off Zero-One."

"No, leave them. This is a continuation of our last battle. It'll be a valid handicap for the damage Tallgeese sustained in Siberia."

Jim frowned under his mustache. "I see, sir. Backstage players like ourselves don't share your sense of pride, I'm afraid."

"I'm just trying to rid myself of weakness."

Just out of Zechs' field of vision, courtesy of his mask, Jim put a hand against his face. _Thank God Bishop's not here to gloat in our faces. _

**VII**

"Commander?"

Flight Officer Kaneshiro was pounding her fists and legs against a worn-out punching bag in the gym at Colorado Springs, now in OZ's possession. It took her a few seconds before she paused between karate strikes to look at the speaker.

"'Kanna' is fine. You're…?"

"Levinsky, ma'am. Pilot Officer."

He looked familiar—there weren't many pilot officers as young as him, and he was very handsome for his age, with a head of thick blond hair cut short and piercing blue-green eyes. She took a moment for a breather, hands her on hips.

"You're Falcon 1-2, right? I recognize your voice."

"Yes, ma'am."

She took a deep breath and delivered a forceful roundhouse kick on the punching bag. "What can I do for you?"

"I…actually wanted to ask you why you're here, ma'am."

"Huh?"

"You're name is on the roster for pilots for Seventh Airborne, which is going into Outer Space. Why would you come here to fight the Utahans with us?"

Kanna crossed her arms and thought about it, blowing a long strand of red hair out of her eyes. "That's not a bad question."

She glanced at the punching bag. "Would you mind?"

Levinsky climbed over the rail and over to the heavy bag, propping his small body against the heavy bag. Kanna resumed her karate, shaking his body with each hit.

"Why am I here?" she asked between strikes. "Good question. I was given indefinite leave until the Space Forces were ready to deploy my unit, but…" she began, delivering another strong kick. "…I guess I hate waiting."

She couldn't tell if Levinsky was still listening—he clutched the bag with both arms, looking a little preoccupied, but she continued. "My latest commander, a flight lieutenant, was pretty diligent. Never turned off, I guess. I guess that caught on, and I couldn't take the idea of sitting around for a few weeks after the Xinjiang Campaign."

She stood up straight and touched her nose with her right index finger, grinning. "It's been almost three weeks. That's a long time just to sit around."

Just as Levinsky was regaining his composure, she pounded her left fist against the heavy bag, shaking him violently. "Don't get me wrong, I kinda' miss the formality. It'd be nice if my unit had been reassigned to Utah before we were deployed into space."

"And you don't think you're being overworked?" Levinsky asked dizzily.

"Back in the Specials, we flew twenty-seven days a month sometimes. Even since then, we're still a top unit in OZ. Old habits...die hard…" she said, with another blow.

She exhaled deeply. "You know, my regular commander…has a crush on a babe from Special Recon. Apparently they went straight from the Baltics to Outer Space, nothing in between. Not sure if I envy them though."

"Commander Kaneshiro!" A junior officer appeared at the giant hole in the wall of the gymnasium where the door used to be. "We've found something you really need to see!"

**VIII (Eyecatch)**

Arriving at Royal Air Force College at Cranwell by helicopter, Ali Kijana Mazuri stretched his legs and arms before crossing the manicured greens of the campus to the brick buildings on the far side. It didn't take the flight officer to find his old companion.

"Ajay!"

"Stayin' out of trouble, Dac?"

The two men embraced, smacking each other's backs. Instead of his uniform, David Ackerson Bishop wore an all-white wool and canvas suit with long gloves.

"Have you taken up fencing?"

"Not exactly…"

Inside College Hall, the two sat in a classroom. "What do you mean, you haven't passed? You know if you fail it, you can take it again?"

"I _have _taken it again. I've taken it _five _times. I think those two lady marines have already passed it by now!"

"Marines?"

"Nevermind," Dac groaned quietly. "The point is, I'm not certified to operate a mobile suit in space. I mean, I was, but not anymore!"

He threw his hands up. "Why do we have to raise certification requirements? What's the point?!"

"Well, there are these people called 'Colonials', and they build things called 'Gundams'…"

"You're not helping!"

The two men sat in the hallway, arms crossed. "Well they're not going to can you. You can just…stay in the Seventh Airborne."

"Oh, great. Flunk out of the Space Forces. Stay a stripe forever?" he said, referring to the absence of diamonds on his rank epaulets. "Sometimes I wonder how I got into the Specials in the first place."

"Me too." Mazuri cried out in pain quickly when Dac unhappily punched him in the shoulder. "Fine, I don't know, maybe you can become a staff officer. Or a carrier pilot. Or bloody tower crew, I don't know!"

Dac looked up from his palms. "…well, I am a pilot officer. Maybe I could become a _carrier_ pilot officer."

"Can you pilot a spacecraft?"

**IX**

In the cockpit of the OZ-12SMSK 'Taurus', as with the rest of OZ's mobile suit line, a pair of digital clocks sat near the top of the instrumental panel, near the autopilot controls: the top typically set to Greenwich Mean Time, the other a mission timer.

It was coming close to 0400 hours GMT, start of the mission time. Several OZ-12RC spacecraft, Taurus carriers, formed a picket line around the OZSS _Europa_, hull designation BC-80, as it approached L3-C-421 opposite the sun.

Emi adjusted her conical helmet and tightened her grip on her two flight sticks. This would be her first major operation in the Space Forces, at least the first one that mirrored the scope of the operations First Recon conducted on Earth.

The radio finally pinged. "_All callsigns, this is the _Europa. _Stand by, we have a new development_."

"_That's never a good sign,_" Emi heard Nabiki announce from the carrier her mobile suit was attached to.

"_We're confirming a Pioneer Leo squadron alongside the Hundred-Ninety-First. After entering in first, Damocles Flight will exclusively target the Pioneer Leos in addition to its original assignment. Spearhead and Trinity Flights will ignore the Pioneers. All flight leaders, confirm._"

Emi held back a sigh. "Damocles Actual, confirming."

F/L Clarkson was next. "_Spearhead Actual, confirming._"

Luna Armonia, in an OZ-06SMS 'Space Leo' aboard the _Europa_ confirmed last. "_Trinity Actual, confirming._"

"Oh, this is bullshit," Motta mumbled in his cockpit, off the channel.

"_Damocles Actual, this is the _Europa. _I'm speaking on your flight's channel exclusively. I'm afraid this just got a little more complicated. Intercepts show those Pioneer Leos are part of the 101__st__ Intelligence Squadron. They might be fighting like normal combat troops, but if at possible we want to take their pilots alive. This could be the breakthrough we've been looking for._"

"Acknowledged, _Europa. _Would you like me to leave my machine behind as well?"

"_The sarcasm isn't helping anyone, Damocles Actual. Just spare their cockpits and reactors, this sort of thing is right up First Recon's alley._"

Emi adjusted her helmet. "Acknowledged. Damocles Flight, disable but do not destroy any Pioneer Leos you encounter inside C-421."

The clock finally hit 0400. "_All callsigns, weapons restrictions lifted! Good luck!_"

"I make my own luck, thanks," Emi scoffed, pulling the lever that released the clamps holding her machine to its carrier. Still engaged in flight mode, she throttled up her vernier thrusters and darted off in a flash, followed by the other two mobile suits. Three other mobile suits from First Recon followed after her.

"_Damocles Actual, go in at full throttle, ignore the point defenses. _Europa?"

The gunners aboard the _Europa _were already at work with targeting solution. "Acknowledged, Damocles Actual. Making a hole for you."

At full power, four dual-barreled beam cannons opened fired on the far end of the colony's support pylon, far from the colony itself. The combined power of the beams vaporized several meters of reinforced armored, exposing internal corridors and chambers left empty since the colony was completed.

By now, they were in range of the colony's defense, which were retaliating. The Taurus mobile suits dove in, still in flight mode but starting to decelerate, through the open shafts of the pylon.

"_We could run out of space real fast, ma'am._"

"Affirmative, Damocles 1-3. All machines, disengage fighter mode."

A simple lever pull, and the mobile suits returned to their normal humanoid forms: their legs unlocked and flexed, their wings folded upwards on their hinges in a pattern resembling a butterfly, and their arms and manipulators unfolded, grasping the beam rifles mounted on their torsos. In effect, they were not fundamentally different from the Leo mobile suits they expected to encounter.

Emi glanced at her instrumentation. "We're under half a g here. Close formation, ground hover, watch for ambushes. Damocles second flight, secure this exit until further ordered," Emi instructed.

"_Affirmative, ma'am._"

With low-power bursts from their secondary thruster banks, just underneath their rear wings, they hovered through the support pylon silently, eventually coming up to the access corridors that ran into the "spokes" that held the ring of the "Island 2" colony together. What followed was the slow, manual climb through the narrowest passageways a tall Taurus could manage to pass through. They remained empty, suggesting Clarkson and Luna were doing their job of preoccupying the defenders. It was delicate work, as they prepared to drop themselves through the artificial sky and into the habitable zone.

Emi could hear the sound of her machine's legs impacting the floor again through the atmosphere in her cockpit. "Damocles Actual, we're reporting that most enemy mobile suits are concentrated in wards three, four, and five, home to the military block." Aboard the _Europa_, which was now beating a hasty retreat, a display screen shown a cross-section of the colony highlighting the twenty or so small wards, divided by the streets and neighborhoods that lined the outer wall of the habitable zone. "All units, as a reminder, avoid unnecessary warfare in the commercial district in wards ten, eleven, twelve and thirteen."

"_Acknowledged, _Europa. _Making our insertion._" Aiming its beam rifle, Emi's machine used precise fire to punch a number of neat holes in the latticework holding up a large section of the artificial sky and inner zone wall. In a cloud of dust and debris, it slid from its holdings and dropped to the colony cityscape below, exposing a huge gap.

"_All units, break formation and pick your targets! Ground-types are go, Pioneers are no go!_" Emi's Taurus leapt down first, and its secondary vernier rockets at barely half power were enough to stop its fall from terminal velocity in the 0.9 g experienced at street level. Announcing her presence, she released a burst of fire at a pair of assault mobile suits still in formation at the intersection of an avenue. Good aiming let her blow the leg off one with her beam rifle even before she descended on the ground.

"Shit, here's gravity again!" she announced to no one in particular as she felt herself almost rock over and leveled her machine amid enemy beam fire. Even before she'd leveled, she adjusted her aim and returned fire in the direction down the avenue, scoring a number of hits on a building before blowing apart the remaining Leo. Once her machine was leaning forward, she hovered a few meters over the streets and darted in and out of fire.

"_It's like being in an Aries again!_" Gotta announced as he came down in much the same manner as Emi, a few seconds later.

"_Negative, more like a Leo with the thruster pack. Don't try and pull any Aries maneuvers, you've got plenty of fuel in this gravity but you'll just smash yourself into the colony wall!_" Indira warned as she fired her thrusters at an angle, landing several blocks away. Her machine immediately came under enemy beam fire but it was worth it: as the weak fire from an enemy Leo grazed her back armor, her machine swung around the corner and spotted, about 200 meters away, an orchid Pioneer Leo armed with a beam rifle. "_High value target spotted, over the department store midtown!_"

"_Acknowledged, Damocles 1-2. I'm moving to cut them off from the next ward._"

Clarkson's familiar voice came over the channel. "_Damocles Flight, this is Spearhead Actual. ETA to ward three, thirty seconds!_"

"_Acknowledged! Damocles 1-3, cut off their escape route from the air, I'll cover you from the street! Damocles 1-2, take that Pioneer alive!_"

"_Roger!_"

"_Affirmative!_" Aiming through the parking garage that obscured part of the Leo belonging the 101st Intelligence Squadron, Indira fired several precise volleys targeting its starboard arm and booster pack. She scored three hits, effectively blasting off the Leo's primary arm and forcing it into cover. As she pursued, Damocles 1-3 seamlessly entered fighter mode again, amid 105 mm autocannon fire, and rocketed towards the artificial sky. It made a sharp circle, peppering the edge of the third ward with beam fire. Distracted by the airborne combatant, a Leo on the ground didn't notice when Emi literally pounced on it from behind, firing a single shot from her beam rifle into its back. At that range, it passed through first the ultracompact fusion reactor, than the cockpit, before leaving small but deep hole in the street in front of the Leo. The machine collapsed, face forward.

"For their defensive edge, these assault guys aren't much for close range combat," Emi observed before a familiar warning tone sounded and she turned her head. Her machine dove backwards, just barely missing a high-caliber high explosive shell, which obliterated much of the park behind her.

"Shit, dober gun! Confirming Leo with a dober gun!"

"_I guess they were expecting us, Damocles Actual_," Clarkson's voice announced. From a new gap in the artificial sky, six more black-and-red mobile suits dropped down, cutting their way down to the cityscape in a cloud of beam fire and exhaust. Taking advantage of the further distraction, Damocles 1-3 fired its thrusters and darted over past the parking garage, behind which the Pioneer Leo had taken cover. A single burst blew apart most of the machine's right arm along, dropping the beam rifle onto the street below.

"_Exit your cockpit and put your hands over your head!_" Indira's voice boomed over her machine's speakers. Sure enough, the Leo's hatch folded open and a pilot in a brown Alliance normal suit exited, putting his hands over his head.

"_One pilot confirmed, marking his location._"

"_There's nothing we can do about it for the time being, we've got more hostiles incoming!_"

Between the third and fourth wards, a number of mobile suits in a line formation kept up their fire on OZ forces. Out of the cloud of smoke, Emi's Taurus rocketed towards an Assault Leo, bashing it across the mandible with the very hard, very expensive boron carbide fin on her starboard arm, with enough force to split the mandible from the cranium and destroy the camera. The crippled Leo fell backwards, still firing its beam carbine, and she turned her machine just in time to fire a blast at its partner's torso. Just beyond it in formation was a Pioneer Leo—she dragged her target reticle and weapon seeker over the violet mobile suit's legs and squeezed the trigger multiple times, blasting off its starboard leg and letting it tumble to the ground.

As she fought her way in and out of the formation, she caught a glimpse of Luna Armonia's six royal blue Space Leos descending from the artificial sky. Very conveniently, they surrounded the line and immediately forced them from their position, allowing Emi to fall back. She brought her machine against the back of Luna's, allowing them to fire upon all around them.

"_Flight __Lieutenant, I spotted a defensive position on the edge of the military block, including both active and passive defense devices. The active ones will pose no threat to us, of course, but they're joined by some emplaced guns and AMGM_."

Emi wasn't that fond of Luna's apathetic, disinterested tone during battle. She did know the girl was an excellent pilot, and had no trouble with her Leo. "_Acknowledged, Trinity Actual. Bring your flight around the office park on the far side, they won't expect Leos to try and flank. I'll draw their fire. Anything else?"_

"Perhaps you'd favor us with some inspiration words," Luna suggested quietly in her cockpit, as flashes of fire appeared on her monitors.

That caught Emi by surprise. "_Why me?_"

"_Why not?_"

Emi audibly sighed before adjusting her helmet. "Remember, comrades, we win here and we show that the Alliance can't just run into the colonies. After this, there's nowhere for them to hide!" She switched her channel to Luna's Leo again. "How was that?"

"_Very good, Flight Lieutenant. Splitting up now._"

**X**

"I wish Walker were here now," Kanna admitted, standing in what was left of a hangar in Colorado Springs. "He could probably make better sense of this."

She and Levinsky stood on the high walkway. Knelt down on its knees but otherwise approximately 18 meters tall and probably weighing in the area of sixteen tonnes, was a heavily modified Leo. Attached to its up-armored legs were a pair of treaded assemblies, and the remainder of the torso was encased in a thick armored housing that disguised a number of smaller missile pods. Upon the shoulders were the main guns of an OZ-06MS 'Tragos', and each arm carried a fixed Gatling gun. The normal cockpit hatch of a Leo was extended and open, and it was clear that it had a two-man crew.

This is what the Republic of Utah had seized along with the mobile suit factories in Colorado: a strange, and unfinished, experimental mobile armor.

"I think we can tell a little," Levinsky asked, crossing his arms over the breast of his uniform. "Ma'am, you've seen a Gundam, haven't you?"

She nodded. "Not up close, but yes, at Mirny."

The two walked along the catwalk, staring at two Gatling guns permanently mounted on the mobile armor's arms, their ammunition belts disappearing into the large ammunition compartment behind the torso. "I haven't any proof, but I think the survivors in the Alliance Mobile Suit Troops took a look at the Gundams, and decided to try something independent of OZ's accelerated development of the Taurus. Something they could use on Earth first, and _then _in space."

He glanced at the electronic tablet in his hand. "Two Gating guns, seventy-five millimeters. Two mobile field artillery guns, two-hundred and seventy millimeters. Two twelve-tube missile racks. Medium beam cannon housed in torso."

He glanced up at Kanna. "I don't know if it could fight a Gundam, but it's sort of an anti-Tallgeese."

**XI**

On an overcast morning, a few kilometers past the grounds of Barclay Kamb Naval Station on the frozen Antarctic ice sheet, Gundam-03 stared at OZ's hulking Tallgeese, which simply stared back. Inside the Gundam, Heero Yuy waited for his opponent's next move. Inside Tallgeese, Zechs Merquise was enjoying himself considerably. Neither had any idea that the remainder of Jagdstaffeln 88 and Jagdstaffeln 13 were both moving to engage them, but were still beyond detection.

From the observation tower, Mieser watched through a pair of binoculars. _And…begin!_

Tallgeese took the first shot, jerkily raising its right arm, in the usual style, and firing a single shell from its dober gun, which exploded in a cloud of fire and water vapor. The Gundam had tried to match the quick-draw with his Gatling gun but failed, but despite its bulky, awkward appearance its rose from the ice on its thrusters just in time to evade the explosion. Tallgeese fired its powerful rocket engines and rose in pursuit, firing its siege cannon as he flew.

Devoid of interruption, the two mobile suits exchanged brief bursts of fire at low ranges. The Gundam was surprisingly maneuverable, but Tallgeese had no trouble flying circles around it. The Gundam had the clear edge in firepower, but that meant surprisingly little as Zechs weaved in and out of his line of sight, spinning and banking in Tallgeese as he took careful shots.

Something dawned on Heero Yuy: Gundanium alloy was famed for its sensor-confounding qualities, but one thing it hid poorly was its heat signature, and every high-performance Gundam showed up on infrared like a torchlight. He began firing into the snowdrift and ice cliffs around him, hoping to obscure himself from Tallgeese circling overhead.

_I'm not falling for that! _Just as he did, Zechs emptied the remainder of the gun's magazine, raining down hot shells that sank into the ice.

However, the shells from Tallgeese's long gun were no different than those from a Leo's, and no more effective. Gundam-03 rocked severely from the shock of the blows, but slowly rose to its feet when it regained internal stability.

Zechs was only enjoying himself even more. "This won't be solved by a fight like that."

There was a short pause in the battle, which Tallgeese used to conveniently load its only spare magazine. They then resumed, with the Gundam boosting itself into the air briefly and firing its Gatling, only to exhaust the ordnance he was carrying. Once again, Zechs easily evaded and fired a single precise shot in retaliation, striking Gundam-03 directly in the torso as it fell back to the ground.

"Is that it?" Jim asked Mieser in the ATC tower.

"I don't think so."

Mieser was shortly proven correct when the entire Gatling gun was jettisoned off the Gundam's left arm. It fell to the ice shelf, revealing a socketed beam saber in the place of Gundam-03's left arm.

"_So you're out of ammunition I see!_" Zechs called out, jettisoning his own dober gun. His enemy promptly charged him with the saber in hand, which he managed to parry off the anti-beam coating on his shield.

"_That's more like it!_" Tallgeese drew its beam saber and the two resumed in earnest, Zechs full exploiting his machine's superior maneuverability.

Above the battle, approaching from the coast, Captain Miller and another pilot from Jagdstaffeln 88 had already intercepted a strange little civilian passenger aircraft.

"_By God, sir, there it is! Just like Buenos Aires said it'd be! I'm afraid to ask how they knew._"

"_Unidentified aircraft, you're crossed into military airspace. Change your heading to one-seven-five and follow us to the landing zone. Lower your gear and tilt your wings to signal your compliance!_"

"_Sir, they don't appear to be responding. Should we wait for more orders Buenos Aires?_"

Captain Miller was more than a little confounded. He hadn't expected to run into an aircraft in the Antarctic Peninsula, much less one that wasn't responding to his warnings. "Fuck me, I'm about to interdict Zechs Merquise and possible a Gundam, I do _not _want to shoot down a civilian aircraft. That is bad goddamn karma."

"_You think they'll try fleeing to Barclay?_"

"Why, they know we'll follow them. Get ready to fire a warning shot!"

As his wingman armed his weapon, the passenger aircraft, as though sensing but misinterpreting their intent, abruptly decreased altitude. "_It's accelerating, Captain!_"

"Oh, goddamn it, take the shot!" A contact in close proximity sent off a tone in his cockpit and he checked his display. "Wait, new contact, looks like a mobile suit…fuck, it's a Gund-!"

Both Miller and his wingman were cut off when a curtain of charged particles emerged from the end of Wing Gundam's buster rifle and swiftly cooked both of their machines in midair before reducing them into clouds of flame and shrapnel after a few seconds.

Inside the aircraft, Relena Darlian was more interested in the Gundam than the pursuit squadron. "Heero? Is that you?"

"_He's fighting up ahead. What are you doing?_"

"I'm here to stop this meaningless fight with Colonel Zechs."

Trowa Barton seemed sympathetic. "_Understood, you'd better hurry. The search party's getting more aggressive._"

As Relena advanced towards the naval station, Jagdstaffeln 13 and Jagdstaffeln 88 were thrown into chaos, trying to regroup and advance onto Barclay Kamb. Jagdstaffeln 13's unmanned recon drone kept its camera trained on the battle. Tallgeese's weakened left arm was beginning to cause problems, but just as the Gundam sought to capitalize it, Zechs scored a direct blow on the much slower Gundam's torso, setting it falling backwards.

"Now to finish you off!" Zechs moved in for the killing blow, just as a tone sounded off the approaching civilian aircraft.

**XII**

There was a knock at the door of Eva Cebotari's office at the Military Commissariat.

A junior officer promptly entered. "Major, Jagdstaffeln 13 and Jagdstaffeln 88 have just reported they've made contact with a Gundam and Colonel Zechs Merquise at Barclay Kamb Naval Station, as expected. We're monitoring them with a datalink from Buenos Aires in the briefing room. The civilian VTOL they intercepted was also heading in the same direction."

Eva was sitting on her desk, rather than behind it. "Thank you," she mumbled softly, still looking away.

The officer bowed and left. Edward Parsons, who had abruptly risen to his feet as the door open, plopped back down in the expensive Baroque chair in the corner and crossed his legs. "See? Sometimes it is that easy."

"So what exactly are you hoping for? 'Relena Darlian: Dead, her aircraft was shot down by a Gundam'?"

Parson's nefarious grin returned. "Oh, that'd be deliciously poetic wouldn't it? Maybe if OZ had a bloody sense of humor, we could have had Lyra plant a bomb that aircraft instead of a tracking device."

"Sometimes it's better to be a watchmaker than to be God," Eva warned before turning to him. "We're here to make sure people behave, after all."

Parsons irreverently dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

"So how does this end?" she asked.

He raised an eyebrow. "Well, if Zechs has a modicum of sense, he'll kill a Gundam before his inevitable arrest. Maybe he'll learn not to go to somewhere like Antarctica, where he can't hide and we can just send every military unit in South America after him if we have to. And maybe that baby sister of his will learn something about sticking her nose in military affairs. Take up pacifism as a hobby."

Naturally, Parsons had no way of knowing what was happening that precise second: Tallgeese had turned its beam saber on the pursuit squadrons, obliterating a pair of Aries before making a hasty escape. Uncrossing her legs and sliding off the desk, Eva smoothed out the creases in her uniform and took her saber from the mantle, hooking it to her belt.

"I'm growing tired of dealing with children." Her red eyes flashed at him briefly with that remark.

"And where are you off to?"

"Where else? To the briefing room. We can't all have your derision for military affairs."

Parsons raised his arms defensively, a very apparent smugness not departing from his face, as his superior left the room, saber jingling in its sheath behind her.

"Will that still be true tomorrow, after OZ has lost its greatest hero?"

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes: <strong>_

_Eva and Parsons are among the most fun to write, and coincidentally, probably the hardest. Especially since their story is effectively entirely original, branching off the general direction of the plot. It's not easy writing a conspiracy, especially when trying to keep it in the style of the overall narrative. Hopefully I haven't bitten off more than I can chew._

_Still, we got through 90% of episode sixteen, the remainder of which be conveniently wrapped up next chapter. We will proceed on with seventeen, with a greater emphasis on space (and the characters in space). A certain fairly popular (and very divisive!) character from the series will be making an early appearance, all things remaining the same, especially since the major part of the episode—Quatre's effort to flee Earth—aren't of our concern, naturally. Stay tuned. _


	25. A Home Far Away

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 25 – A Home Far Away**

_7 April, AC 195, East Jerusalem_

It had been more than a month before Operation 'Daybreak', and the first of the Gundams had been confirmed on Earth. After a reported sighting of one in Libya, Flight Officer Walker was on standby with the rest of the 44th Special Airborne Division of the Middle Eastern Air Army. In the meantime, a thought had occurred to him, something from his engineering days.

"So it's still there? It would look like an unusually large Leo, a meter taller than usual."

He was sitting in a secure communications room in the Staff HQ for the Middle East Air Army, UESAMECOM.

"_If this is what you're talking about, sir, it hasn't moved._" At the other end of the line was an engineer he knew at the Corsica Mobile Suit Works. "_I'm pretty sure there are more than a few pieces missing though_."

"There must be, I found an armored faceplate and integrated radar array. It looks sort of like an ancient Roman soldier's helmet." Sure enough, bound by thick harnesses onto a simple trailer, was a white faceplate with a crimson red sensor array, made of high-tensile titanium alloy.

"_Do you really think this'll be any use sir, even if you can restore it?_"

"I hope so, but there's no way to tell." In his hand, he held printouts of transmission sent to him by Zechs Merquise, photographs from observation aircraft in the field.

_Gundams are on Earth._

In the present, Flight Lieutenant Walker was having another vividly lucid dream, watching his life replaying before him. He'd been resting his eyes in his small room in the Diekirch Mobile Suit Troops School. It was 29 July, and classes were canceled for a Christian holiday; 'holiday' just meant that Walker went from aboveground work—teaching—to belowground activities. He'd fallen asleep hugging a book to his chest, with a name embossed on the cover in gold: Tubarov Villemont.

Walker was about to close his eyes again when the telephone on the wall rang and he reached for the receiver.

"This is Walker, go ahead." He sat up in his chair. "The Military Commissariat? A drumhead court-martial?"

**II**

On the edge of the third ward of Colony L3-C-421, Flight Lieutenant Ogasawara sat on the rim of the open cockpit of her OZ-12SMSK 'Taurus', reading a newspaper. On the floor of her cockpit, an open thermos was within arm's reach, as she flipped through the _Informer_, the colony's ironically named local fish-wrapper.

At the feet of her mobile suit, a detail of _Magarmach_ commandos escorted a line of Alliance Space Forces prisoners-of-war, survivors from mobile suits including the 191st Mixed Battalion and the 101st Intelligence Squadron. The remainder of OZ's Taurus and Leo mobile suits were perched throughout the three wards, rising like black and blue titanium monoliths throughout the residential community, which she got a good view of. The POW's and soldiers on the ground got to look at the wreckage of moss green and olive mobile suits, and crippled but largely intact purple mobile suits, OZ-06MS and OZ-06SMS respectively.

"Ogasawara!" That belonged to the older F/L Clarkson, who waved at her from the ground. Giving an annoyed sigh, she slipped down on her tether to the street level.

"What's the matter, Clarkson?"

"Nothing. Which is why we're handing the situation off to the local militia and pulling out." Clarkson sounded pleased with himself, so Emi just scoffed, flicking her bangs.

"What's that?" Clarkson gestured under her arm.

"You've never read a newspaper?"

"I know what it is, I was asking why you're reading some trash printed in a blockaded colony."

"It's something to read."

"If you're searching for something to read, Lieutenant, maybe you should consult your own datalink." Flight Officer Luna Armonia stood atop a Leo's severed right arm, looking down at them.

"Fine then," she replied, stuffing the newspaper into Clarkson's chest and letting her tether pull her back up into her cockpit. Clarkson watched her lift up and shook his head.

His mustache twitched. "I'll never understand her."

"I don't expect so, Flight Lieutenant," Luna told him calmly.

Clarkson ran a hand through his grey hair. "So, I expect you'll be taking the survivors from the intelligence squadron to your sister, the lieutenant colonel."

Luna didn't respond, instead taking the newspaper from him and unfolding it carefully, so he continued. "Just as well, now that we know Taurus units are capable of fighting inside a colony's habitable zone, we can expect the General Staff to be much more aggressive."

"And you don't look forward to that?" Luna asked him.

"Hey! If you've got time to chat, get back to your damn machines and open the datalink to the general channel!" Emi barked from her cockpit.

Clarkson looked at her oddly before turning to his own machine down the street. The encrypted military datalink was a term for both point-to-point transmissions through tremendously high frequency—radio bands in the range of 300 gigahertz to 3 terahertz—and general broadcasts in extremely high frequency—30 to 300 GHz, like the ones that _Barge _and the Earth Sphere military satellite network constantly broadcast at all times. In addition to crucial data and orders, EHF was used to broadcast more general news and information, along with supplying the Space Forces with access to Earth Sphere's civilian Network, mostly hosted on terrestrial servers.

Switching his left MFD over to EHF, he found it to be bursting with news. All of OZ, both in Earth and space, was hearing the same story repeated over and over.

"Ogasawara, do you hear this?"

"_Yeah, Clarkson. I hear it._"

"_…Lieutenant Colonel Zechs Merquise, hero of the Mobile Suit Troops, has been arrested on suspicion of treason and is being held in former-UESASACOM Headquarters in Buenos Aires…_" the tinny voice reported, as though she were listening to an FM radio.

**III**

The year is After Colony 195. The Lightning Count, Zechs Merquise, has fallen. But the loss of its most decorated knight has done little stop OZ in its march of history. With the decisive victory in Colony C-421, OZ demonstrated the superior mobility and firepower of the next generation Taurus against the Alliance Space Forces. The United Earth Sphere Alliance had posted had posted its Space Forces in the colonies and strictly controlled their political and economic freedom. With its collapse on Earth, the Alliance Space Forces, both its navy and mobile suit troops, remained in control of colonies.

But this control was diminishing, as OZ waged its war of liberation in Outer Space. And with C-421, OZ not only negated the greatest advantage of the enemy mobile suit troops, but secured a tactical victory by seizing elements of the much-diminished Alliance intelligence corps. The fall of one great hero would not stop that.

The liberation of the colonies aside, OZ's first order of business was to attempt to offset the tremendous numerical advantage that the ex-Alliance still held, in terms of naval forces but particularly in the mobile suit troops, where Leo squadrons and battalions greatly outnumbered Taurus and Leo units. Appreciating history, the General Staff understood that both superior technology and training could not necessarily offset superior numbers and longer combat experience, and sought a solution that would fit with the political objective of liberating and arming colonies. One of those solutions was the implementation of the mobile doll system, which ensured every Taurus could be made operational, whether or not it had a pilot.

Over a period of twenty hours, the scant remnants of the Alliance garrison at L1-E-063 had slowly been through constant attrition—in those twenty hours, they'd fought no less than thirty firefights with OZ. Where there'd been thirty mobile suits dug in deep in the colony's superstructure there were now three, that had fled into the habitable zone, local time just after midnight. They planned to link up with a separate company that was still outside. In the meantime, OZ's commando fire teams had silenced their ground support.

"_No response from the command tower!_"

"_We better get the hell out of here then._"

"_Yes, sir!_"

Three machines, all OZ-06SMS 'Space Leo' mobile suits, stood near the large access shaft on the edge of the colony habitable zone, with one reaching forward with and then spinning its manipulator to manually open the service door. One of the two machines covering him spotted incoming enemies.

"_Two hostiles, inbound!_"

"_Open fire!_"

The barrage from their three beam rifles proved easy for to evade for an OZ-12SMS 'Taurus'; in fighter mode, they banked and evaded, leaving the beams to cut through the colonial cityscape, as the flight leader reestablished a heading and fired a single, low-power shot from the powerful beam cannon his machine carried. A wave of particles sent the Leos where they planned to go, through the access hatch, but in pieces, with the commander's model flying out through the superstructure and exploding in space. It was the mobile suit equivalent of shooting fish in a barrel.

The three mobile suits escaped through the gape in the side of E-063 as the bulkheads slowly shut after them. They left fighter mode, transforming into black and red angels of death, as they linked up with the rest of the squadron, already engaging a number of other Pioneer Leos. By the time the colony had drifted into sight of the Space Fortress _Barge_, the other unit commander had obliterated the last of his survivals with a full-power blast from his beam rifle, thousands of meters long, across the axis of the colony.

There were no Alliance survivors to hear the message OZ broadcast, unencrypted, on the general frequency. "_Soldiers of the former Alliance, stop this futile resistance! The Order of the Zodiac has come to bring peace to Outer Space. Now, let us welcome a new age together_." They were words from Lady Une, Countess of Hanover and OZ's diplomatic envoy in Outer Space who watched that very battle from aboard the Alliance's old space fortress.

Flight Officer Tycho Nichol, leading a unit of OZ-01MD mobile dolls—in effect, simply OZ-12SMS that entered a combat zone without pilots and operating as autonomous mobile dolls—around E-063.

"That should be the last of them. Give the guys from First Recon our thanks for cleaning up on the inside, we'll finish up out here," Nichol announced.

"_You can tell us yourself, Nichol_," a pilot from the First Recon battalion replied smartly.

Nichol laughed in his helmet. "Right, I forget mobile dolls don't appreciate decorum. In any case, we're done out here."

"Acknowledged, withdrawing from combat zone. See you back in _Barge._"

Nichol nodded and gently changed his heading. "Comet 2-1, this is Comet Actual."

"_Go ahead, Comet Actual_."

"Colonel Une wants this colony secured in time for the Area D Summit today. We'll wait for the _Minmas _to complete its sweep before rendezvousing with the rest of the fleet, then we'll take on more check from either end."

"_Roger, sir. What about mine clearing_?"

"Fuck, I forgot about mines." Extraterrestrial minefields were as much a part of the inter-colonial Alliance blockade as the Space Forces or their Mobile Suit Troops, perhaps more so. If OZ was liberating the colonies, they had no choice but to painstakingly clear them out. "I hate mines," Nichol mumbled.

"_Roger that,_" Comet 2-1 responded as his communications system pinged—a audio message from the OZSS _Mimas_ (CL-40) acknowledged they'd completed their sweep and had nothing to report.

"That's our cue. Follow my lead."

Comet 1-1 and Comet 2-1, each accompanied by two mobile dolls, took the next ten minute to avoid the minefields and insert into E-063 from either side of the main axis. Nichol's flight entered in fighter mode before returning to normal inside the main pylon.

"_This is Nichol. The mobile dolls nominal. Or rather, everything's in perfect form_," he reported back to _Barge_. He could see on one of his MFDs that his signal was additionally being patched through to another colony in the area, C-102. On his top left minidisplay, Lady Une appeared in the cabin of a car.

"_Is that so? Then return the unmanned mobile suits back to _Barge, _Mr. Nichol._"

"What about security?"

"_The Colonials consider mobile suits their enemies. I'll speak with their privately after the conference today._"

The call ended and Nichol shrugged. _I guess they want to return to daily life as fast as possible. _He flipped a switch, switching to the channel used exclusively by the mobile dolls. "_Canceling existing orders. Return to _Barge."

_To their credit, mobile dolls might lack creativity, but they're fast and they obey commands about as good as raw cadets. _

Inside the functioning cockpits, the flight sticks slid back and forth, MFDs flashed and instruments beeped as they entered fighter mode and promptly left through the same access tunnel as they'd entered. With nothing left to do, Nichol did the same. He was not aware that he and his units were being monitored, by someone who had just appreciated the novelty of mobile dolls.

**IV**

Walker had no way of knowing the exact details, but he did suspect he wasn't the only outside interested in the mobile doll program. In the wake of Zechs Merquise's formal arrest, Walker was ordered to remain in Diekirch as a material witness. To take his mind off the subject, he studied the work of Tubarov Villemont, chief engineer of one of OZ's design teams, just as Colonel Treize had instructed him to earlier that month.

Not ten minutes after the call informing him of Zechs' arrest, he'd gotten another call, this one from the General Staff: his classes had gotten him noticed by Tubarov's staff at the Ruhr Valley No. 4 Mobile Suit Factory in Düsseldorf, and they'd requested him for a handful a number of vague proving operations. Listening to the call, Walker was certain that this had something to do with the mobile doll program. But instead he was sitting in the marble halls of the Military Commissariat.

On the other side of the mahogany doors, in what was affectionately called the bullpen, a dozen officer cadets and second lieutenants rapidly scrambled about, carrying boxes of paper files pertinent to the Court-martial of Zechs Merquise. Against the opposite wall, O/C Edward Parsons propped one foot up and crossed his arms.

"And what exactly are you doing?" a young lieutenant asked angrily. Like all officers in the commissariat, they could be distinguished by the silver, rather than gold, insignia they wore on their caps, and the silver pipping along their uniforms. Parsons just shrugged back and the lieutenant kept staring at him, eyes twitching.

"Parsons! Get in here," a breathy voice ordered from one of the small private officers that surrounded the main floor. Parsons got off the wall and leisurely entered, closing the door behind him.

"I hate that little bastard," the lieutenant hissed under his breath.

Major Cebotari, in full uniform, sat to the left of the door, legs crossed. The young mans' eyes immediately went to the long aquarium behind her, which he strolled over to and began tapping a finger against.

Eva waited, letting him tap his finger against the glass for a few minutes, as though he'd never seen an aquarium before. "Parsons!" she barked softly at him finally. He stopped tapping on the aquarium in time to turn and catch something tossed to him.

Parsons smoothed it out and looked at it. "A black arm band?"

"Acht is dead. At least pretend to care, E.P.." She crossed her arms and put a hand on the armband on her right sleeve.

"If you can do it," he mumbled, pulling the band on. As he fiddled with the band, Eva stood up from her seat and he turned just in time to see the door open.

"Lieutenant Colonel Armonia!" Parsons declared aloud, saluting. Lady Soris Armonia, in her maroon and white uniform, smiled widely at them before approaching the aquarium and glancing into the soft blue light.

"My dear doctor, I didn't know you were a fish person," she said with a smile, leaning down and holding the file she was carrying behind her back.

"They belong to my predecessor."

Parsons hid a distasteful frown. _I'm beginning to see the point behind the eye shadow and makeup. It raises her mockery to the maximum level of annoyance. _

"Lady Soris, will you be presiding over the pretrial hearing?" Eva asked.

"Yes, with two officers from the General Staff. We've all had experience with the typical post-ship loss court martial conducted by the navy."

"That's...not really a good comparison," she pointed out softly.

"No, but it's the best we have on such short notice. In the meantime, I've been sent to make sure everything's in order," Soris explained, not taking her eyes of the aquarium.

"Where's Lieutenant Colonel Une?" Parsons asked suspiciously. "She's presided over past hearings."

"Une's busy with our ambassadorial mission in space. So I'm in charge."

_I wonder if that stunt with _Barge _has something to do with that_, Parsons thought. "Yes, ma'am. Your orders?" he asked, sounding a little patronizing.

"Wrap up your pretrial investigation immediately. No one, not even his Excellency, can be allowed to drag this out while the Gundams are out there. As soon as you enough to precede the case, we'll do so."

"But…Colonel Treize will certainly want evidence presented in Zechs' defense!" Parsons pointed out.

"Exactly. Get to it," Soris said, standing up and smacking a file into Parsons' chest. "We're in a rush."

**V**

The Area D Summit was so named because it was hosted in the area of the D-prefix colonies, specifically inside L1-D-1307, in blatant defiance of the UESAETCOM, the Alliance's military headquarters in Outer Space, in D-120. It was a testament to OZ's progress in Outer Space—in a matter of weeks, in the face of overwhelming numerical superiority, OZ had established that it, and the colonies it had liberated, could act in impunity in the face of the main group of Space Mobile Suit Troops. An Alliance retaliation on the colonies already secured was guaranteeing a swift and painful response from OZ. The first of the All-Colonial Congresses, as they were called, could be held in safety.

The fact that D-120, like all colonies at the first Lagrange point, was well within the firing zone of _Barge_'s primary cannon was redundant. In D-1307's parliament, leaders from various colonies not under Alliance control watched a video presentation narrated by OZ's extraterrestrial ambassador.

The first half featured footage of the Alliance's crushing "policing" of Outer Space.

"_Today, in the year After Colony 195, we feel the denizens of Outer Space deserve to live freely. However, to date, the United Earth Sphere Alliance has oppressed you. The era of the Alliance has ended._"

Footage of Alliance Space Mobile Suit Troops obliterating Colonial ships and fighters, of Leo mobile suits storming colony interiors, was replaced by OZ's own black Mobile Suit Troops, swiftly hunting down and obliterating their Alliance enemy. Some footage was just a few days old.

"_A new order is being created on Earth, and it shall be the same here in space. You people are now free. OZ has come to support you_."

The short video ended and Representative Nguyen of L1-C-102, addressed the murmuring All-Colonial Congress. "That concludes the public message from the OZ Military, or rather, the OZ Peacekeeping Forces as some call them. Rather than responding immediately, I'd like to discuss our response further in the next scheduled conference. OZ assures me that they're in no hurry for an official response. Accordingly, I'd like to adjourn the Area D Summit."

Nguyen adjusted his glasses just in time to see the see a representative he didn't recognize, who'd sat in the conference, leave as the delegates began to disperse. As he didn't recognize her face, she must have belonged to OZ, he reasoned. He caught up with her as quickly as he could; it was hard to miss the beauty in the blue suit and short skirt.

"I didn't have an opportunity to thank you," he explained once he caught up with her.

She turned to smile back at her. "Oh, not at all."

"At the moment, I'm alone in thanking you. But in the future, I hope my whole colony will thank OZ for their service."

"You're quite young for such a democratically-elected leader," she observed.

Nguyen had heard that one before. "Couldn't youth be interpreted as potential? We third-generation Colonials understand the difference between the 'OZ' organization and the Alliance military, unlike our elders."

"Of course, OZ was once part of the Alliance. It'll take time for many to understand the difference. In the meantime, soldiers of the Alliance military are still scattered throughout the colonies." She bowed quickly. "You must excuse me, I must leave to liberate the next colony."

_Quite an audacious statement to make. _As she turned to leave, he raised a hand. "Pardon me, but I didn't catch your name…?"

She turned back. "Oh yes, that's correct. I'm responsible for OZ's activities in Outer Space."

She then did something that surprised him enormously—with a soft touch, she removed his glasses and placed them, backwards, just in front of her own eyes while smiling. "You may call me Lady Une."

**VI**

"So this is everything?"

Lady Soris stood in Eva's office, looking at her desk, which was now covered three awkward stacks of thick paper notebooks with black covers and a cardboard box of digital storage media. Two officer cadets were still sorting the files.

Parsons casually tossed a large diskette in a glass case into the box. "Yes ma'am, everything we have on the man known alternatively as Zechs Merquise, Millardo Peacraft."

"In effect, this is everything the Alliance and OZ has on Zechs," Eva added softly. "We'll pull an all-nighter while interviewing witnesses, and the board will be able to make their decision."

"And you've already gathered the witnesses?"

"All the witnesses we'll need," Eva assured her. "If necessary, we're quite capable of moving very fast. We know who signs the cheques, my Lady."

"I see."

Parsons reached to the desk and took a notebook. "Speaking of which, we'd better have some coffee and sandwiches brought if if we're going to get through this now..."

"Actually, Mr. Parsons, I'd like you to handle the testimonial interviews," Soris said, taking the notebook from the shorter man while grinning.

"…I understand, I'll speak with the rest of the prosecution."

Soris plopped down in an armchair. "For Zechs' defense."

Eva wasn't acquainted with Soris Armonia—she only knew her by virtue of her high rank and peerage, and her decorated military career—but she took considerable enjoyment and watching Parsons freeze in place, having just fished his mobile out of his pocket.

"…huh?" he finally said, his mouth very wide.

"The report from Buenos Aires basically condemns Zechs for his actions," Soris began. "Though the staff here has exercised all due diligence and objectivity, we know beyond reasonable doubt Zechs killed most of what was left of Jagdstaffeln 88 and several pilots in Jagdstaffeln 13. We have irrefutable video evidence. I'm not that interested in excessively defending a guilty man, even if he is the legendary Zechs Merquise."

She stretched her arms over her head, looking almost like a cat with her eyes closed. "Parsons, Perez, Parker, you'll handle Zechs' defense. We're setting an example, after all. Do whatever you need to protect the image of propriety." She rose from the armchair, pulling her arms back and sticking her chest out as she stretched more. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to return to something that matters, like the war effort."

Soris promptly headed for the door, leaving Parker and Perez saluting from the table and Parsons standing behind with his mouth ajar. Eva said nothing but made no effort to hide how much she was enjoying herself.

Parsons kept staring at the door well after it closed before turning back to the other two officer cadets and barking instructions. "Fine then! Perez, review the footage! Parker, check Zechs' mental stability and the like. I'll speak to the witnesses,"

He then yanked out a notebook from the bottom of one of the stacks, sending the rest toppling over everywhere. Eva had to hold back her laughter as the other two cadets tried to catch the files, while Parsons walked over to the aquarium and opened the glass cabinet next to it. He indiscriminately yanked out a bottle of aged scotch out before closing it.

"You know you can't drink that," she told him softly.

"It's for the pilots. You ever known a pilot who didn't drink?"

Eva didn't have a response for that, and Parsons continued as he he dropped the bottle into a cardboard box, before sweeping his notebooks and pens off the table into it. "You see, this is the problem with OZ. We spent weeks making sure that Zechs would have to leave OZ before he could ruin it from the inside, and now we're going to go through the trouble of defending him. Next we'll be arming the colonies, just we can go through the trouble of disarming them!" he snapped, storming out of the office and slamming the door behind him. The smile didn't leave Eva's face when her mobile went off in her pocket and she drew it out.

"Speaking of losing their nerve…"

**VII**

In North America, the pace of fighting had slowed considerably. As had happened elsewhere, OZ had viciously fought its way to just before a crushing victory over its enemies, only to pause and pursue a diplomatic option. In Xinjiang, it had failed and the opposition was crushed. In Utah, it seemed more likely to succeed. The 1st Battalion of the 40th Canadian Victoria Cross Airborne Division, OZ's premiere Aries unit north of Mexico, had relocated to the Coloradan Republic's capital, Old Denver, not to fight but to stand in honor guard for negotiations with the civilian delegation from the Zionist Party.

In the National Assembly in Denver, Pilot Officer Levinsky shuffled his feet about under his cape. "Three-hundred thousand square kilometers and not a drop of coffee. I can understand the no alcohol, but coffee? Really ma'am?"

Flight Officer Kaneshiro Kanna leaned on the tall glass windows and smiled. "Think of it as a few days of clean living."

"Right," he mumbled, rubbing his face. "I need to wait until we leave this strange land before I can get a decent cup of coffee. Wonderful."

His whole body shook before standing upright again. "So, ma'am, do know you anything about the woman from the Romefeller Foundation whom offered to arbitrate with the Republic of Utah?"

"Right, 'offered'," the F/O mumbled sarcastically, adjusting her white gloves and crossing her arms under her cape. "OZ doesn't have many of its own diplomats, and the Foundation shows up, after all the fighting, to fill in the gaps. _Real _convenient."

The two stood over the rotunda windows overlooking Republican Square to the west, to the city hall building that faced the National Assembly. An armored limousine pulled up just in front of a large granite statue of an indigenous American standing over an extinct Bison with a bow.

"That must be her. Whatever you do, ma'am, please don't do anything rude."

"What're you talkin' about?" Kanna demanded.

The two marched down to the lobby to greet the Foundation's envoy, only to be rather surprised: out of the limousine, in one of the Romefeller Foundation's expensive royal dresses with a sash in OZ colors worn over one shoulder, was a young woman—a very young woman—with very long, straight platinum blond hair, violet-blue eyes and rather curious eyebrows. Kanna and Levinsky stood at attention as the girl curtsied quickly before she ran a hand through her hair and smiled.

"Dorothy Catalonia. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

The granddaughter of the Duke of Liechtenstein got right to business, strolling right up to the President's Office and claiming it her own for now.

"Ms. Kaneshiro and Mr. Levinsky, I'm sure you have your own plans, but I would like you to personally sit-in on these negotiations," Dorothy explained, as she unrolled a large map of center of the continent onto the mahogany table.

"Of course, Ms. Catalonia."

"Please, call me Dorothy," she told Kanna as the map was set up. She pointed at the bottom of the top left quadrant. "The delegation we're meeting will be arriving from the capital of the Utahan Republic, New Jerusalem," she said, pointing to a city on a lake, surrounded by harsh mountains and deserts.

"Assume we don't know that much about Utahan politics," Levinsky said quietly.

"All you need to know is Zionist Party, who will have to approve any peace treaty, represents the partnership between the Continental American Military District of the former-Alliance and the influential Latter-Day Saints Church," she told them, her voice sounding like that of a schoolteacher. "No matter whom they are or what they believe, people are very predictable once you know such knowledge of their goals."

**VIII**

Just as the Sun Queen had ordered, the Military Commissariat continued working nonstop on the pre-hearing paperwork. Officers ate their meals at their desks before returning to their assignments.

Cadet Perez noticed Parsons sitting at his desk in the bull pen with a notebook computer. "What's that?"

Parsons looked away from the screen. "One of Zech's old acquaintances is a Lieutenant Walker. This is his public mail account from the Middle East Air Army. The subpoena just came through and I thought I'd entertain myself."

"What's in it?"

"Pretty much exactly what you'd expect for an abandoned mail account on the Network in that part of the world. About three hundred letters from Protestant organizations selling miracle cures and warning about internationalist plots to let children divorce their parents. About a hundred from Sunni groups warning about the downfall of decent society and the disloyalty of academia. An invitation into a Ponzi scheme. Some pseudo-pornography. And one Marxist newsletter." He closed the laptop. "Very boring, like Walker I bet."

Carrying the laptop in one arm, he entered Eva's office to find it empty. Perez glanced over his shoulder as he looked about.

"Where is she?"

"Major Cebotari? His Grace Duke Dermail and the Foundation's board of officers wanted an in-person briefing, she's already left for Brussels."

"So we went through all this just so they could give Zechs a slap on the wrist?" Parsons asked, before groaning. "God, what is wrong with us? What's wrong with _them_?"

"Hopefully not that much," Perez answered. "Flight Officer O'Brien's ready to be interviewed."

Parsons crossed his arms and closed his eyes. "And who is he again?"

"One of Noin's men. He surrendered to Jagdstaffeln 13 when they secured Barclay Kamb Naval Station and has been in our custody since then."

"Right, right. I'll speak to him in second floor conference room."

F/O O'Brien was waiting in the empty conference room, nervously pulling out pieces of lint from his hunter green uniform when O/C Parsons entered and he snapped to his feet. Putting on a neutral face, Parsons circled the table and saluted O'Brien, who hastily saluted while remembering he outranked the younger man.

"Sir, I'm Edward Parsons, charged with Zechs' defense."

"Of course," O'Brien replied, nodding. "Uh…shouldn't you be cooperating with Colonel Zechs then?"

Parsons sat down, checked his wristwatch, and opened a notebook. "Sometimes these defenses are better if avoid that, believe it or not. So, you were reassigned to Noin's command after your injury on the Belarusian Front. Before that, you were in First Recon, under F/L Chernenko."

"That's correct."

"And when you met Zechs Merquise in Antarctica, how did he seem?"

"I…I suppose he seemed calm and confident. Like any other time I'd seen him."

Parsons pretended to write something into the notebook with a pen. "I see. Tell me sir, Zechs instructed Noin and yourself to evacuate when the pursuit squadrons arrived. After that, he said something very unusual, didn't he?"

O'Brien slowly nodded.

"And what was that, sir?

There was a pause before he responded. "…he said, 'Long live the colonies.'"

The room seemed eerily, uncomfortably quiet. Parsons checked his watch again, holding back his grin. "Are you thirsty, Flight Officer?" eyeing the bottle of scotch in a cardboard box.

**XI (Eyecatch)**

"_Forces of the former-Alliance military unjustly stationed have been forced to surrender. With OZ's powerful Mobile Suit Troops, full operations have commenced for the removal of minefields, with the hopes of reestablishing communication between colonies._"

Duo Maxwell, the pilot of the infamous Gundam-02, frowned at the broadcast from a colonial news station recently established on Earth. "I thought OZ was supposed to take over the colonies, not free them from the Alliance."

In a safe house owned by the pilot of Gundam-04, Quatre Rebaba Winner, the two Gundam pilots were trying to formulate a plan. "They do. If OZ used force, the colonies would prepare to retaliate. But they'd be welcome if they aided them first."

_So what the hell are we? Preliminary surveyors? _He shrugged. "Most people in Outer Space are easy going. No one's gonna' question OZ's plans."

"It's time we returned, with our Gundams. They were built for the people of the colonies, we're the only ones who can save them from this evil plot."

_Good thing no one can hear us. They'd tell us how crazy we sound. _"You're right. But how?"

Far from the Gundam pilot's hidden subtropical lair, the leadership of the Romefeller Foundation gathered for an uncharacteristically militarized briefing from a trusted officer of OZ in the scenic _Grote Markt_ in downtown Brussels. The ancient halls, preserved as a World Heritage Site by the UESAESCO—the long acronym for the United Earth Sphere Alliance Education, Scientific and Cultural Organization—was now in the custody of the Foundation itself.

Eva stood in the conference room of the _Maison du Roi_, in front of a massive digital screen with Zechs Merquise's dossier on it. By coincidence, in the corner of the screen was the same video that the Gundam pilots had been watching, which had moved onto the topic of Colony C-102.

Duke Dermail gave a somber sigh and rapped his knuckles on the table. "While we appreciate your candor, Doctor, we know all this. Give us the same briefing you gave the General Staff a few weeks ago, during the Darlian Investigation. What is the worst case scenario?"

Eva sized up the crowd of Europe's wealthiest royalty, political leaders and other socialites, then cocked her head very slightly.

"Simple," she said softly. "The worst case scenario is that Zechs becomes Millardo Peacecraft, and rallies people—his countrymen, other so-called 'Pacifists', but most problematically, his comrades—and leads them against the Romefeller Foundation, and by extension, OZ. Short of a civil war between the military forces of OZ and the civilian leadership of the Foundation, he would have no choice but to target both, even if he didn't want to."

She smiled dangerously at all of them. _They know that, in many respects, OZ broke from the Foundation when it launched the Revolution of its own accord. Romefeller had enormous control over the Alliance for seventy years, in many respects more than it had over OZ. One could even claim OZ is the only thing guaranteeing the independence of the colonies from the next Alliance the Romefeller Foundation endorses. _

Duke Dermail managed to smile back under his mustache. "On point as always, Eva. Please continue."

"After that, Zech's death: whatever the circumstances, it would mean martyring him, thereby becoming a hero for the remnants of the Alliance. Zechs Merquise was already a hero to Alliance soldiers and junior officers before 'Daybreak'. If he were to die, he would become another casualty before a Foundation political takeover."

"She's right," one noble interjected. "He's enormously proud with both groups. My son, a captain in the Alliance Navy, practically saw him as God."

"So, something as brutal as that is no solution either," Dermail said in agreement. "Then what?"

"The last option: force him to flee. Preferably alone. Like any other human, Zechs' behavior is governed by the power he holds. Discarding OZ, he has no limitations, but he does lose a considerable amount of his power. He cannot rally military forces to his cause without declaring war outright, and becoming a warmonger himself. He can barely rally anyone to his cause, besides those closest to him. Should Millardo Peacecraft abandon the name Zechs Merquise, he will still be dangerous to many. But he will be far less dangerous in the immediate future."

The council went silent, as the nobles seem to ponder over the explanation. One of them spoke.

"I do think your grandnephew should be here, Dermail," an elderly official sitting next to Dermail explained.

"Perhaps. But we should look at this as reasonable men. Zechs is like a brother to Treize, and I don't care for pitting brothers against one another. I've had enough of that as of late."

While the Foundation's leadership waxed philosophical, on the very colony the news broadcast had spoken of, OZ had a made a surprise headway in their securing of Outer Space. The search for Alliance sympathizers and saboteurs had led to something quite different.

With her hair in buns and in her full military uniform, Lieutenant Colonel Une went to a detention cell in the main building of what was an Alliance garrison, but now served as her headquarters on C-102 and that of the local Colonial militia.

Still wearing his normal suit, Nichol was looking very pleased with himself when he recognized a young corporal, Une's secretary. Une had already arrived and was about to personally interrogate the new prisoner, but Nilsson showing up a few minutes later was not uncommon.

"Officer Nichol, what's going on?"

"Our security patrols found someone in D-1307, not known to the colony registrar. He surrendered to Marine strike force and he's been detained here."

"During the conference?"

"The very one."

In a jail cell with a security detail posted in front of it, Lieutenant Colonel Une stood just in front of the open door in the dimly lit room. Sitting in a chair before her was a small, fragile looking elderly man, a scarred face with a comically long nose hidden by a thick mop of grey hair on his head.

"The proverbial creator," she remarked, smirking.

"So, I finally get to meet the military big-shot," he smirked right back at her.

A staff officer elaborated. "He was caught in the act of destroying the evidence: a small facility capable for manufacturing small mobile suits."

"So he succeeded?"

"It appears so."

Une drew out a snub-nose revolver, a private purchase, and held it against the eldery man's head. "Well then, were you the one who designed the Gundams?" she barked.

"What a stupid way to ask such a question!"

"Just answer! You must have been heavily involved in the Gundams."

"No, not with the other four," he countered.

The officer winced as Une considered the new development. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"Think, Zodiac. I designed the best Gundam I possibly could. Why would I make four more variations of it?"

"So you're claiming you only designed one of them?"

He nodded. "The masterpiece I call 'Deathscythe'."

_Wow. It has a dramatic name. What a shock_, Nichol thought.

"The others happen to be a coincidence. The Alliance prohibited communication between colonies, and I only created _one_ Gundam."

At the same time on Earth, in the headquarters of the 1st Battalion of the 13th Guards Medal of Heroism Division outside Singapore, Squadron Commander Sebastian Krist stared at a scrolling computer screen, reflected clearly on his large sunglasses.

"Commander Krist!"

"What is it Lieutenant?" he asked, not looking up at the visitor.

"Just letting you know the H.L.V. are standing by and ready for launch."

"Good. Maybe we'll get some peace and quiet after that," he said, before glancing up at the younger officer through his glasses. "Take a seat, Lieutenant, you look a little jittery."

"Very well sir," he said, pulling out a chair. "Shame about this Zechs business, isn't it?"

Krist gave an indecipherable nod. "That it is."

"Didn't you know the Lightning Count, sir?"

Krist got the feeling this conversation wasn't just going away. "I did. Fought with him during 'Daybreak' actually. Never thought he'd go traitor," he said, half-lying and half-not caring.

The F/L seemed to be taking it harder, and just shook his head. "I guess part of growing up is seeing your heroes fall, isn't it?"

Krist nodded, before reaching to his computer and stopping the scrolling screen. The F/L looked up and saw the reflection of a dossier photograph on his sunglasses.

"What are you looking at sir?"

"Some dossiers from the Alliance Space Forces. Future troublemakers, really."

"What makes you think that?" the F/L asked as he circled around the table to get a look himself. The screen changed to reveal three service photographs of three different young officers.

"Call it intuition. I didn't just know Zechs, I knew Arroway."

"You mean that Alliance Admiral that died in the battle at L4?"

"The very one. She had a few crazies in the Space Mobile Suit Troops on a short leash, and now that she's gone, I expect they're going to be a problem. Especially these two," he said, pointing with two fingers at a young woman and a young man.

"Captain Carmen 'Bella' Soletta. Major Umar bin Khattāb," he read aloud, looking at the two handsome pictures. "They both Colonials sir?"

"There are other Colonials, but these two I'm worried about. You know what they say."

He glanced at the lieutenant, who just stared back at him.

"No, what do they say…sir?"

"There's no-one as fanatical as a convert," Krist explained.

Above them, the lights turned from white to red, and a klaxon blared loudly as Krist shot out of his chair, hands on the table.

"What was that?"

The lieutenant was already on the telephone, and turned back to him. "Raffles Perimeter reports two mobile suits attacking from the east!"

"Scramble the First Battalion immediately and put all troops on alert!" he ordered him.

"Do you think it's a Gundam?"

"Just relay the damn orders!"

As the battle begun at Stanford Raffles Cosmodrome in Singapore, Walker sat in a chair in the waiting room in the Military Commissariat Luxembourg, pulling back his sleeve to check his wristwatch.

_Right about now, some kids from the Military Commissariat are probably rooting through my room in Diekirch. _He ran a hand through his hair and sat back in his chair, as the door on the other wall opened to reveal a young, dark haired O/C.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Flight Lieutenant. Come in."

Walker followed Parsons through the bullpen and into one of the offices. Immediately, he found himself distracted by the illuminated aquarium built into the wall.

"Eye-catching isn't it?" he asked the O/C.

"That's what I said," he replied quickly. "Edward Parsons, sir."

"Oswald Walker."

"Take a seat, sir." Rather than sitting behind the desk, Parsons dragged the chair from behind the table and around to the chair Walker now sat in, placed himself in it and leaned in his direction.

"So how can I help you?" Walker finally asked.

"Do you know what's happened?" he asked.

"I heard Colonel Zechs Merquise was arrested in Argentina for suspicious behavior."

Parsons nodded, beckoning Walker to continue. Walker just stared at him.

"…in?"

"…suspicious behavior in the Tallgeese mobile suit."

"Thank you sir," Parsons said, abruptly standing up and circling around his own chair. "Zechs and his cohorts wiped out all of Jagdstaffeln 88, most of Jagdstaffeln 13 and a number of airborne carriers."

Walker sighed quietly as he continued. "Zechs killed at least five mobile suits himself. So I guess the question is do you have any idea why he'd do this, sir?"

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Parsons."

_I could take the pen on the desk behind you and stab you in the brain, you tech-head. I've see Eva do it. _Parsons stared at him. "Are you sure, sir?"

"I'm not as well acquainted with Zechs as you might think. Not as much as Lieutenant Noin or the Otto Richter."

Parsons sighed and began pacing around the office nervously, the only thing he could do to avoid sitting on the desk and pulling one of his legs up. "Unfortunately, Lieutenant Noin is one of his accomplices and missing, and Officer Otto is dead. So that leaves you."

Walker waited for Parsons to stop in front of the aquarium. "You couldn't interrogate his Excellency?"

Parsons barely resisted punching the side of the aquarium, then turned to Walker, forcing a grin. "Are you hungry, Lieutenant?"

**XII**

After they easily wiped out the ground defenses, only one thing separating two Gundams from the H.L.V. gantries at Site No. 3 towards the middle of Singapore Spaceport, the royal blue mobile suits of Krist's 1st Battalion. But in the first major altercation exclusively between OZ and the Gundams since Mirny was different from those encounters before.

"_This OZ unit isn't like the others!" _Gundam-02's pilot cried out. While there seemed be to be traditional Leo formation line that OZ's ground mobile suits preferred, this wasn't a replay of past encounters. Behind a handful of short-lived forward scouts, the bulk of their forces remained concentrated well out of both Gundams' engagement range. "_I can't get any closer!_"

Krist's 1st Battalion, joined by the OZ-07MS 'Tragos' of 6th Separate Artillery Battalion, did not let up, pouring everything they had into the Gundams. Between the two mobile suits and the distances involved, most of their shots unsurprisingly missed—but even just a fraction of it was an incredible amount of fire for them to contend with.

"_Just head for the Site No. 3 as fast as you can!_" Gundam-04's pilot shouted back over the local channel. He fired his vernier thrusters and skimmed along the tarmac at a position of four machines with autocannons, believing he could eviscerate them at close range. Normally he could have, except two Leos with siege cannons fired from their hidden position, sending him to the ground.

"_Quatre!_"

Unmanned observation aircraft circled the Gundams as they linked up, relaying video to OZ's General Staff in Luxembourg, and by chance, to the Colony C-102's Presidium. As OZ's cracked troops seemed to press whatever advantage they might have had, Nguyen and C-102's executive council considered their options.

"So those are the Gundams. They're still fighting OZ on Earth."

"The Alliance military oppressed the colonies, with OZ's assistance. I can understand a Colonial sentiment to retaliate against Earth," another admitted.

With his back to an elder statesman, Nguyen stared at the screen. "Yes, but even now, our promotion of peace is hardly being ignored by OZ itself. Do we really plan to keep running around while weapons like those exist?"

"Those Gundams fight because they truly believe in their cause, the defense of the colonies."

"I must disagree, sir. They're a threat to those very colonies. We must show OZ our intent, before the Gundams force their hand further."

The elder statesman continued. "The Gundams chose to fight out of their love for space. They're desperate, fighting untold enemies. So why can't we help them?"

"This is why!" Nguyen countered, nearly shouting in turn. On screen, Gundam-02 literally cut a Leo in half with its scythe. As the torso toppled backwards, its cockpit hatch blew off on exploding bolts and the ejection seat rocketed out, only to vanish in a bloody mist from a burst of Vulcan fire from the cannons mounted in the Gundam's head. It had probably been instinctual more than anything, but the OZ pilot went from life to literally not existing in a fraction of a second.

"Tell me, sir, what exactly happens if we don't agree with the Gundams? If our interest disagree with theirs? With if a refusal to fight OZ to the last man sees us joining their long list of enemies?"

Nguyen felt his left arm, feeling where the metal pins were left in his humerus from injuries he'd taken a decade earlier, in campaigns of civil resistance against the Alliance occupation. "OZ is the only thing that's kept Area D from being retaken by the Alliance, what's to say we're not already complicit in that?"

The elder statesman didn't have an answer for that. Nguyen didn't even take the time to revel in this small victory, and turned to an aid. "Call the delegates—we're making a statement."

In the National Military Academy in El Palomar, behind men of the 4th Parachute Brigade, Zechs Merquise stood leisurely in a dining room, watching as reports came in of an official statement being issued by the All-Colonial Congress on the situation in Singapore.

"_We wish to announce the consensus of the Area D colonies. The mobile suits known as Gundams, currently engaged in warfare with the Earth military of OZ, have no connection with Colony Area D._" The young delegate adjusted his glasses before continuing. "_We also declare that if the Gundams consider OZ an enemy, then Area D shall consider the Gundams the same. OZ has treated us fairly, and together we have sought common ground in spite of past differences. We hope that the Gundams are defeated in their attack on Earth. We further hope that other colonies will follow our example with this declaration._"

"What a cruel, but predictable, twist," Zechs mumbled softly. "OZ has poured lives and materiel into its Outer Space campaign. Are a few words its only promised reward?"

In Singapore, Krist listened to the broadcast as he rapidly keyed instructions into his communications system, closing the noose around the Gundam.

"_Commander, did you hear that?_"

"I did, but don't assume a bunch of 'terrorists' care! They came to Earth all on their own didn't they? They're probably fine with a few colonies not understanding their glorious cause," Krist shot back. As the Gundams were tossed about by dober gun fire, he was about to call in air support when his lieutenant screamed over the channel, having just been burned alive.

"_Sir, new contact, heading zero-three-zero, it's Unit Zero-Five!_"

"Looks like the whole party's here!" Krist said, almost laughing. "AWACS _Eagle Eye_, keep an eye out for Unit 03, I bet he'll be showing up soon!"

"_With respect, Centurion Actual, I don't think we can fight four Gundams!_"

Closing the channel, he grinned and rapidly spun his machine to heading 030. "I've fought Gundams at Mirny, and lived. I have no idea if I'll do the same here, but death is an old friend. I no longer fear it, or the Gundams!"

**XIII**

While Singapore burned as two more Gundams joined the first pair, two flights of Taurus mobile suits led by Lieutenant Colonel Une and F/O Nichol descended on L1-C-1013, a rare double-torus Stanford-design colony. Three combat engineers in Space Leos, signaling with a torch, had promptly been obliterated when a beam cannon fired through the side of the outer industrial block. Two manned Taurus mobile suits were caught in the same particle wave and were annihilated instantly.

"_Two manned suits are down! No mobile dolls hit, probably thanks to their reaction times!_" Tycho reported.

_For once, I'm glad not to have Ogasawara or First Recon. The last thing I want is her telling me I shouldn't have offered the possibility of surrender_, Une thought discontentedly. "Mobile doll unit, prepare to fire with your beam cannons!"

Nichol immediately chimed in. "_Colonel, the beam cannons are too powerful! A direct him from that many could seriously compromise the colony's stability!_"

"Oh?" Une smirked. "Nichol, since when has OZ tiptoed its way through war? We're not engaging in diplomatic talks, we're fighting against our own destruction. Collateral damage is not our concern, just like it's not the concern of enemies holding out against us!"

She hadn't seriously expected a response, but when she got one, she was silently grateful. The voice of an old man came through on the open channel, its origin the colony in front of them.

"_Hah! I'm delighted to hear that OZ is still so mean-spirited! In that case, I'll happily surrender to you!_" the old man jeered.

"And I'll accept your surrender, now show yourself!" Une reveled in her momentary success. _I don't know if it's just another ploy of theirs, but the links between each Gundam designer have made it comically easy to track them down. _

On Earth, both Walker and Parsons sat in the bullpen in the Commissariat, the former sneaking glances at a thin monitor bolted on the wall that relayed the only story anywhere, the ongoing battle of Singapore. Parsons sat with his back to the monitor, surrounded by open notebooks and plates of food, apparently engrossed in his own conversation.

"You see, sir, no matter what our defense is, we're going to hit a wall over the fact that a flight of dead pilots are all that it takes to convict. We'll approach this from a self-defense perspective—that then pursuit squadrons fully intended to kill Zechs and destroy Tallgeese—but it's hardly less treasonous. And that's ignoring the Gundam."

He played around with the half-eaten steak on the plate in front of him.

"I don't know if you fully appreciate the gravity of it, but first, we can't claim it was an accident. An accident is the only way you can even try to suggest that many pilots dying unintentionally. It's just so obvious that it's not. Zechs Merquise had every intention of rebuilding that Gundam. He had every intention of giving it to its pilot. And he had every intention of killing anyone, OZ or otherwise, who stood in the way of his duel."

He looked at a small piece of beef on the end of his fork. "Second, we can't claim he was insane. That's another thing that might get Zechs off, but I can't make that argument in good conscious."

"Why not?" Walker finally asked. Parsons had been doing almost all the talking.

"I might not have a lot of years of experience, but I've met mad pilots, officers whose minds have been torn apart by shellshock and trauma. We think it doesn't happen in OZ because of our conditioning and our age make us more resilient, but it's there. And nothing Zechs has done would indicate he was any less sane than you or I."

_Speak for yourself, friend. _"I see, Mr. Parsons."

"Do you? If a preliminary drumhead like this looks this bad, I can promise that a prolonged trial over a few weeks or longer won't be any less forgiving." Parsons gave another sigh. "Of course, this is all irrelevant isn't it? Because in six months' time, Zechs will be buried in the ground under an unmarked grave with six bullets lodged in him. The man killed most of two pursuit squadrons!"

The two men sat in the silent office. Walker looked devastated, as the magnitude of what had happened began to sink in. "Are you all right, Lieutenant?" Parsons asked finally.

"I'm fine, it's just a lot to take in."

Parsons nodded sympathetically. "It's getting late, why don't we resume tomorrow?"

"I'd appreciate that," Walker mumbled as Parsons shuffled his documents back into his folder, before leaning back in the chair and holding his head. The officer cadet watched him and looked under his desk.

"If you'd like, sir, I think I have…" he began, with the sound of things jostling under his desk.

"Pardon me?"

Parsons sat back up and set down an expensive but empty bottle of scotch. "Sorry, looks like its empty."

Walker chuckled. "That's for the better, but I appreciate the offer."

"I keep it for comrades who can actually drink," he said, humoring Walker.

"Good evening, Officer Cadet."

"Good evening, Flight Lieutenant."

Walker left the bullpen, silently strolling out of the Military Commissariat. He was actually glad the bottle had been empty, but it might have done something about the feeling of misery he carried in his chest, like an overwhelming pressure. He marched down the street before spotting a public video conferencing booth, which he stumbled into and propped his back against the far wall. Inside the booth, Walker stood for a few seconds before he began to whimper hysterically, crying over the thought of his fallen hero.

**XIV**

"_All of the Gundams have fallen back from the power station and communications array, they're moving for the third H.L.V. site!_"

Krist grit his teeth as he squeezed off another burst from the beam rifle carried by his OZ-06MSK Leo Command-type. "Four Gundams at one location for the first time since New Edwards, and we're not all dead? I think this is going pretty well for two low strength battalions!"

"_Centurion Actual, we're scrambling aircraft to intercept the H.L.V., but your orders are to shoot down any launch vehicles. We think the Gundams might be attempting to use the launch vehicles to escape!_"

"You couldn't let me have this moment, could you?" Krist shouted back. "The Thirteenth has fought four Gundams to a standstill, consider yourselves fortunate!"

"_Sir, something's happening with Unit 04! The cockpit hatch is open and it looks like the pilot disembarked!_"

Increasing his camera's magnification, he brought the distinctive Gundam into better view, as 105 mm HEAM rounds and beam fire glanced off it, slowly but surely wearing down its armor. He was just in time to see the tiny silhouette of its pilot slide off the tether and onto the ground.

"Centurion, Beagle, concentrate your fire on Gundam Zero-Four!" he shouted into his microphone. "Victory or not, if we don't destroy at least one Gundam here, we'll be the laughing stock of the Mobile Suit Troops!"

"_Acknowledge, Centurion Actual!_"

"_Yes sir!_"

Gundam-04 shuddered under the continued barrage of fire, even without the Tragos' and dober gun-armed Leos turning their fire onto the other Gundams while they descended into Site No. 3. Soon it was only the only Gundam still in the field. It had nearly been reduced to a halt, when it twinkled in the night before exploding violently, catching a few mobile suits in the blast and showering shrapnel everywhere.

"_Holy shit! Did you see that?_"

"_All callsigns, Unit Zero-Four just self-detonated two hundred meters from Site No. 3, probably to cover the escape of the other Gundams! Direct all fire onto any H.L.V. lifting off!_"

Even those mobile suits not caught in the blast were still enveloped in a rapidly expanding cloud of dust and smoke, rushing outwards and covering much of the area. Krist had to toggle rapidly from optical to thermographic cameras and trying to spot the launch vehicles but only caught the exhaust trail of their solid booster rockets firing off, lifting them from the ground.

"_The vehicles lifting off, all callsigns, target them!_" Krist snapped.

"_Which ones are the decoys_?"

"_Just shoot them all! Shoot every one until you run out of shells, damn it!_" Soon, over the cloud of smoke and exhaust, cannon shots and beam fire crisscrossed around the round heavy launch vehicles. As he blindly shot all about, Krist never considered his old comrade Walker, sitting in the dormitories at Diekirch, staring blankly at schematics for a proposed mobile doll, the planned successor to the operational OZ-01MD Taurus units with red eyes. His head slid into a gloved hand as he was bathed in the dull glow of the notebook display in front of him changed, diagram to diagram.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_I thought this chapter would have more Zechs. It barely had him at all, though he will be appearing in the next one. I am, however, happy that the consummate backstage insider, Dorothy Catalonia, was able to appear, expect to see more of her next chapter as well, alongside her more famous cousin. I have to admit, this chapter ended up dancing around in circles a great deal, but a few things were accomplished: Walker got sad, the Gundams left Earth, Krist blew up a Gundam (as far as he's concerned), and Parsons finally met Walker (for what I'm pretty sure is the first time). Expect more sad Walker next chapter!_

_Hopefully Krist's little diatribe, "Consider yourselves fortunate!" should sound familiar to anyone who watched Gundam Wing's dub. I don't have that many chances to drop in memorable little lines from the show, I need to do it more often if I can. _

_As you might have noticed, I cut this chapter a tiny bit earlier: when Une orders that the H.L.V. be intercepted by low-orbit missiles, which turn out not to be working. There's a presumption that the Gundam designers somehow did this from captivity, but to my annoyance, it's never explained. As such, I've kind of swept that aside, hoping it'll be explained better when the new manga addresses that fact. _


	26. Tallgeese Lost

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 26 – Tallgeese Lost**

"_Hey!_"

"_What took you so long?_"

On the video, the designer of Wing Gundam shuffled about with his crude prosthetic claw-arm. "_Well, ell, why did you guys put up more of a fight_?"

"_There was just too much to be done_," another designer, a similarly old man in a white coat admitted.

"_Well…all the same, it's been fifteen years. I'm amazed all five of us would be alive to finish our Gundams,_" he admitted, putting his hand in the center as the others grasped it, his voice tinged with sentimentality.

In the OZ Space Forces Headquarters aboard Space Fortress _Barge_, Ambassador Une watched the footage from cell that held the five Gundam designers. _So we've come full circle: five members of the original Zodiac Design Bureau, now in OZ custody._

She only had irregular contact with Colonel Treize Khusrenada, and naturally, took what orders she received extremely seriously. His Excellency afforded her great autonomy in Outer Space, apparently trusting her judgment. In her state room on _Barge_, the table with her notebook computer, were printouts of the proposed Epyon Gundam.

Having return from Colony L1-C-102, she was changing back into uniform with her two lady's maids when one of Nichol's subordinates called on the notebook.

"_We've confirmed the identities of the designers themselves._"

"All five of them?"

"_Yes, ma'am. As we expected, all five were members of OZ's past design bureau for mobile suits._"

"Is that so?" she asked, her voice still soft and delicate. A maid took her blue blazer and set it aside to be washed.

"_All five of them disappeared following Tallgeese's development and were missing since. Specifically, since the designs for Tallgeese were completed, not the actual prototype itself_."

Another lady's maid began dressing her in her blazer. "Tallgeese?" she asked as she fixed her collar. "Isn't that the mobile suit in possession of Zechs, the prototype for Leo?"

"_Yes ma'am, the one finished twenty years ago. But it's still held as the mobile powerful mobile suit Earth's built._"

As a maid fixed Une's hair and she put her glasses, her voice dramatically lowered in pitch and tone. "Most powerful is hardly the appropriate term."

"_Ma'am?_"

"It wouldn't be the most powerful unless all soldiers agreed," she said, glancing at the schematics on the table. She walked over to the stateroom window and pulled on the blinds. "We'll have those designers make us a mobile suit. One more powerful than Tallgeese, no, more powerful than the Gundams."

From the stateroom, an undercover employee of the Military Commissariat, code-named 'Lyra', watched Une stare through the thick viewport, betraying no emotion and being indistinguishable from the other lady's maid, sans her bob haircut.

**II**

At the military airfield at Diekirch, Officer Cadet Edward Parsons took one look over the surroundings before heaving a sigh and climbing up the mobile stairway and into the supersonic jet liner. He had a few hours to arrive at former-UESASACOM in Buenos Aires, to personally attend the pretrial for Zechs Merquise.

Entering the aircraft, Parsons immediate sat down in the nearest cabin, set his suitcase aside and unfolded his thin digital notebook as it beeped and woke it from sleep mode. After the boot up to the operating system, the typically melancholic face of Major Cebotari appeared.

"Doctor, I should be at UESASACOM at in about three hours," he explained as he removed his cap and sat down. "How's Colonel Khushrenada?"

"_Very quiet. A Commander Broden is in from the Caribbean Air Army, probably to complain. But that's about it._"

He checked the date on his wristwatch. "Pretrial today, court martial begins in a week. By September, Zechs be standing between a firing squad and a cement wall at Capua Vetere."

"_Are you that anxious for your stripes_?"

He fixed his sleeve. "What gave you that impression?" As the aircraft began to taxi, he glanced out the window at a familiar officer boarding a military helicopter.

Carrying his cape folded atop his briefcase, Walker watched at the supersonic transport taxing onto the runway, its turbojets whining to life, as he climbed into his seat. The helicopter was empty except for a few other officers and a fancifully-dressed young official from the Romefeller Foundation. The pilot spoke from the cabin over a loudspeaker.

"_Sirs, we're on course for the headquarters of the 19__th__ Guards Cross of Honour Division and the 32__nd__ Knight's Cross of Merit Airborne Division at Bonn, then the Ruhr Valley No. 4 Factory in Düsseldorf. If any of you are bound for Rammstein Air Base, please disembark immediately._"

Opening his briefcase, Walker withdrew the copy of Tubarov Villemont's magnum opus, _The Political and Social Consequences of Battlefield Automation_, which despite its name remained highly technical as well as socially theoretical, and was now filled with highlighted passages and writing in the margins. He still had his share of work to do before he landed in the Ruhr Valley.

**III**

It was late afternoon when the diplomatic mission from the Republic of Utah arrived in Old Denver, where they were greeted by OZ's provisional military delegation: Flight Officer Kaneshiro, Pilot Officer Levinsky, and Dorothy Catalonia, a civilian 'advisor' from Earth's Romefeller Foundation.

The negotiations weren't final but with the Republic of Colorado's government scattered throughout North America, OZ effectively held all executive power in what had been liberated by the 40th Canadian Victoria Cross Airborne Battalion, and was anxious to leave.

OZ's delegation—two Mobile Suit Troops officers and the Foundation's negotiator—met with the Utahan delegation in the otherwise empty president's office on Republican Square downtown, behind a security detail of Royal Marines. Dorothy immediately appeared enthusiastic, which helped offset Kaneshiro and Levinsky sitting awkwardly at the table, feeling out of place.

"First and foremost, we're assuming OZ will honor the most basic precondition: respecting the sovereignty of the Republic of Utah as dictated by the Tokyo Treaty of After Colony 131 _east _of one-hundred and eleven degrees longitude." This was apparently directed at Dorothy by the chief delegate, Utah's foreign minister, immediate as he sat down.

Dorothy made an eerie, impenetrable smile at the much older negotiators. "You shouldn't count on OZ tolerating Utah's cross-border empire reaching to California. Even now, you're still fighting the Republic of California and the Federal P.N.W.."

Another Utahan spoke up, wearing an Alliance uniform with the republic's flag sewn on the sleeve. "Let us worry about that. If you can't promise that you'll honor our eastern borders, we've wasted our time coming here. "

Levinsky glanced at Kanna out of the corner of his eye and grimaced, as Dorothy brushed it aside. "Fine, we'll let you have your little American war."

The foreign minister ignored her comment, nodded and began handing out the first draft of the legal instrument of peace, documents bound in leather folders. There were six copies, enough for each person in the room, and Dorothy produced a red pen from somewhere in her Foundation gown and opened her binder, looking entirely too eager to use it.

**IV**

Behind the light grey façade of the Libertador Building in downtown Buenos Aires, in the former offices of UESASACOM, Zechs Merquise dressed himself in a uniform he had no official right to wear. He'd been stripped of his rank of lieutenant colonel the second he arrived in Buenos Aries, though the officers in the South American Air Army unsurprisingly let him keep his uniform after taking his ceremonial saber.

With slow, deliberate motions, he replaced his iconic polished helmet before stepping out of his room.

"It's time, sir. Are you ready, sir?" a military policeman asked.

"Yes I am."

Escorted by a pair of military policemen, Zechs was brought to a dimly lit auditorium with a pair of long tables positioned near the front. On the far end of the room, an even number of large digital projection displays were arranged in front of corresponding desks, the tall pulpits of the prosecuting officials. The whole arrangement was intended to intimidate the defendant as much as possible as he took his place, standing between the desks.

There was a flash, and a single spotlight illuminated his position in the otherwise dark room. Zechs stared at the great seal of the OZ Terrestrial Forces, carved in wood in the wall directly in front of him. Right underneath it was the presiding officer's pulpit, occupied by a barely visible Lieutenant Colonel Soris Armonia. Wearing the same uniform he did, she cracked the gavel she was holding once.

"Now then, we'll begin the preliminary inquiry into the conduct of Mobile Suit Troops officer Zechs Merquise. You are under suspicion of treason, of assisting radical colonial terrorists on Earth, and of attacking and killing officers of the Mobile Suit Troops."

Dimly lit by the projectors, Zechs could see only one other lieutenant colonel was in attendance: Brooks. Three of the colonels—Chuang, Farkill, and Sedici—presiding apparently didn't feel the need to be there in person. He felt a little disappointed.

"I'd like to remind everyone that this is not a court trial. This is the preliminary hearing to rule on the need for such a court trial," Soris explained. "Lieutenant Romero, are you ready with the charges?"

The formal prosecutor, an Argentine flight lieutenant, nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"Mr. Parsons, is the defense ready to proceed?"

The young man standing at the table to Zechs' left stepped forward. "Yes, ma'am."

Now Zechs was worried as well as disappointed.

At the same time, at the opposite end of the hemisphere, the young Dorothy Catalonia was locked in a preliminary debate of her own, as negotiations with the Republic of Utah wound up. The Utahan foreign minister was sitting at his seat, while his two comrades fumed silently as Dorothy's red pen danced along her copy of the treaty.

"Would you like to say something _else_, Ms. Catalonia?" he growled finally.

"I'm afraid some of this language is unacceptable to OZ," Dorothy explained calmly. "His Excellency would never approve proviso thirteen as it stands."

The Utahan Foreign Minister looked over his copy. "'All Mormon children, as defined by local statues on age, in the Republic of Colorado must be granted the right to return to the Republic of Utah.' How is this a problem?"

"Is this about the closed borders? OZ promoted their necessity, and frankly, we agreed, with a religious exception!" another added.

Kanna looked over at Levinsky warily. Even they knew where this was going.

"Simply put, sir, OZ cannot endorse the notion of 'Mormon children'." She carefully closed the binder and put her hands together under her chin, as though expecting this to take some time by itself.

"…I don't even…but…" he sputtered.

"I'll spell it out for you," she explained cheerfully. "There is no such thing as a Mormon child. Nor Christian children, nor Jewish children or Muslim children. With the possible exception of children inducted into monastic orders."

The envoy in an Alliance captain's uniform spoke up. "Excuse me, how exactly do you explain the millions of children who…go to services on the Sabbath every week?"

"_Those_ are children of Mormon, or otherwise Christian, parents. What you're clearly referring to here are young children, around the age of five, who are in no position to make any decisions concerning their religious faith. OZ can't consent to such a stance."

"That's…absurd! I can't believe I'm having this conversation in the first place with a…"

"With a what, Mr. Foreign Minister?" Dorothy dared him.

The foreign minister wisely shut up, so she continued.

"Think about this rationally. The Order is not so powerful that it would claim that parents have no right to indoctrinate their children. But you cannot call a child a Mormon child anymore than you could call it a Marxist child or an anarchist child or a Confucian child. Children, by definition, are not capable of making those decisions, and categorizing them for political purposes is extremely dangerous."

_Wow, that actually sounds pretty good when she says it aloud, _Kanna thought, finding herself admiring the young woman more and more. Like most Japanese, she was raised in a nonreligious background, but knew many Catholics growing up. Accordingly, for those children born with Catholic parents, it never occurred to her that they _weren't _Catholic children, no more than she'd thought those girls who would grow up to be shrine attendants weren't Shinto.

"We naturally won't object to repatriation of children with their parents, or children with no family outside the Republic of Utah. But if you think we're going to make exception for existing statutes on child welfare or border policy just because of religion, you're very mistaken."

The foreign minister stared at her as if she were insane then lowered his voice. "Ms. Catalonia, you must understand that what you're asking is politically disastrous. Eighty percent of Utahans who believe deeply in the atonement of Christ and the destiny of his church in Zion, wherever that proves to be. They won't tolerate their government conceding such a weakness on the road to what they believe...what _we _believe to be glorious salvation."

Dorothy smoothed out a crease in her dark blue sash and leaned forward, a tricky task in her gown. "And?" she asked quietly.

On the far side of the table, Levinsky raised his eyebrows at Kanna.

**V**

It was mid afternoon in the Kingdom of Belgium, a founding monarchy of the Romefeller Foundation, as the sun was beginning to fall over the suburbs outside Brussels. In the Sonian Forests south of the city, OZ's commander-in-chief listened to the impassioned complaints of an older, trusted comrade, as he shot at partridges.

"And what of Jagdstaffeln 88? The Military Commissariat sent them to their deaths just to ensure Zechs would either be a martyr or a certified psychopath!" Squadron Commander Broden asked.

Colonel Treize Khushrenada nodded, sighting his rifle on the top of a tall fir tree. "It was no secret what the Eighty-Eight symbolized, but they were still good soldiers and officers, some of the best survivors of the old regime."

Treize squeezed the trigger, causing a lone pheasant to fly off after the crack of his rifle. He lowered the low-caliber weapon and ejected spent brass with a turn of the bolt. "To the Military Commissariat, they were disposable Alliance and Foundation flyboys, nothing more."

Broden sighed. "It's insanity. Even if we could rule out a split between the pro- and anti-Foundation factions of the Military Commissariat, it's madness to throw lives away so arbitrarily. OZ can't…"

"OZ can't what, Commander Broden?"

Both men turned to see Dr. Cebotari, in her full hunter greens, smiling at them suggestively as she rested against a tree. Instead of waiting for a response, she uncrossed her arms over her chest, walked over to a nearby marble resting table, and sat atop it. She pushed her cape out of the way and crossed her legs.

"Tell me, Broden, what would you have done? When we cannot arbitrarily arrest Zechs, nor kill him without provocation."

He snorted. "So you let the maniac inside him loose and pushed him along. For what? So you could deal with it faster?"

"History won't celebrate our loving treatment of prisoners and deserters," Eva responded softly Treize watched another partridge fly over the tree line. "They will condemn our failure to punish them, however."

"And how do you think your history will feel about what we've done with Zechs?"

She cocked her head and smiled. "I think OZ will fall from the stage unless we deal with Zechs quickly," she warned in a breathy voice.

Broden was about to fire back a response when Treize raised a hand and silenced him. He turned to his old comrade, rifle in hand. "I shouldn't be wasting my time hunting in the middle of all this. Broden, would you mind taking this back to the lodge?"

Staring at his commander-in-chief, Broden took the rifle and slung it over his shoulder and saluted sharply before departing.

_At least he got the message. _Eva didn't care for Broden, but there was nothing to be done about that—they might have been the same rank, but Broden used his seniority and his standing in the Mobile Suit Troops to the fullest extent, and was beyond reproach. Broden's enlistment at eighteen in the Alliance Armed Forces predated the founding of the _Speciali _unit, he was untouchable.

"So then, Eva, there's no turning back."

"Contrary to Broden's claim, we did not know for certain that Zechs would destroy anyone standing in his or the Gundam's way," she explained to him, taking care not to sound sarcastic. _Though we were prepared to destroy them if Zechs' legendary leadership got the better of them_.

"I suppose not. There can be no undoing that," Treize remarked. Despite sounding genuinely saddened, his face itself betrayed no substantial emotion. "Do you have what I asked for?"

Eva nodded and reached into her pocket, producing her mobile, which she presented to her commander. On the main screen was a simple map. "The remains of the Alliance Indian Ocean Air Army, alongside the mobile suit divisions of the Alliance Seventh Fleet. They've become a serious annoyance, raiding supply lanes coming out of south India. The Mobile Suit Troops believed they'd destroyed their staging areas in Sumatra and Batang, but it appears they're operating from carriers now."

They stood in silence in the forest as he studied the map.

"And you want to send them after Zechs, sir?" she asked, the playfulness drained out of her soft voice.

"This Indian fleet has sunk almost a million tonnes, gross register tonnage. It relies disproportionately on mobile suits," he observed. "This would also spare us the tragedy of forcing OZ to hunt down its greatest hero."

"He would not be hunted down if we executed him by firing squad," she countered, heaving a deep sigh, taking back her mobile and standing with her legs close together. She looked at Treize, expected him to respond, which he didn't for a time.

"This plan seems the best, as it stands." Treize continued to smile, but seemed unmistakably sad. "I'm sure you see that, if anyone wants to resolve this matter with Zechs, it's the Military Commissariat. I wouldn't question your sincerity."

She opened her eyes again. "Your Excellency, do you really want this for his sister?"

Treize raised an eyebrow.

"For some reason, you felt it was necessary to give Relena Darlian that soapbox she so desperately wanted. I won't question why," she told him softly.

"At first, I did it out of loyalty to Zechs, my closest, oldest friend," he told her calmly. "But I'm beginning to see what I didn't expect to."

"What would that be?"

Some of the sadness was replaced by thoughtfulness. His expression remained unchanged. "Relena Peacecraft may have the strength of will to accomplish something on her own. And there is nothing so beautiful as a human mind, oblivious to the universe, free of distraction. It's the closest we might ever come to God."

"I question your god, your Excellency," Eva responded.

"What would you recommend, Doctor?"

"The same as my colleagues: you find somewhere Relena does not offend you, and you keep her there for the rest of her life. Or at least until the war is over."

_But this war will be over. _"I see." He turned towards her. "And what should I do with you?"

Eva shook her head, causing her long, wavy black hair to blow in the wind. "You mean the officer who has evidence of you acting against the wishes of the Foundation?" She narrowed her eyes, her red irises almost catlike. "Perhaps you should kill me."

That caught him by surprise and he smiled faintly. "Despite your demeanor, I see you've earned your nickname, _Stilet Lung_."

In response, Eva open and closed the fingers of her right hand, her palm facing him.

"I couldn't kill someone who understands me," Treize continued calmly. With nothing else to say, he saluted her and she saluted back, descending into the forest. Treize watched the strange woman—pale, white skin, coquettish figure, long black hair that reached past her waist, unwelcoming red eyes. _I don't give the political officers enough credit._

**VI**

At the pretrial continued, Zechs found himself more and more impressed with his very young defender. Parsons, his voice even and controlled, continued as he read his documents.

"Sirs, before he continue, I'd like to address to elephant in the room—the testimony from Flight Officer William O'Brien."

"_You mean Zechs' statement, 'Long live the colonies.' Correct?_" Chuang asked from his display. Zechs visibly shifted when he said that.

_No, some other suspicious statement, you morons. _"Yes, sirs. This is a court of the Terrestrial Military of the Order of the Zodiac, as such, we deal with evidence. Evidence, not things like 'thought' or 'suspicion'. This sort of speech is not illegal. As such, I'd like it stricken from record."

The prosecutor frowned and blinked her eyes. "O'Brien's statement speaks to Zechs' intent!"

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions," said Soris from her pulpit.

"Exactly, Lady Soris. We're dealing with evidence, here, aren't we? Isn't that the cornerstone of any sort of disciplinary hearing?"

"Get to the point," the prosecutor growled.

"I'm no philosopher, but I can tell you that we can't prove the existence of 'hell', or for that matter, a human being's exact intentions. The only thing we can prove here is the 'road'!"

"_So you'd like to start with the observational evidence and battle record?_"

"Yes, starting with the data from 27 July, midday."

"I would like to say something," Zechs abruptly announced, silencing both the defense and the prosecution.

Soris gave an eerie smile and rested her head on her left hand.

"For the court's record," he elaborated.

"Go ahead, Lightning Count," she replied.

Romero stared at Zechs, her mouth ajar, as Parons kept his eyes trained forward, refusing to lose his cool regardless of what his defendant did.

"In truth, this has been a long time coming. I've done everything I can to prepare myself for the court martial that my behavior has entitled me to. I've played this scenario over and over in my head a hundred times, and every time I've come to the same conclusion. I realize how unfortunate it seems that I've slaughtered my ostensible comrades with the mobile suit given to me. Perhaps it's embedded into my DNA. I don't think I can ever know peace, much less in my service to Earth's nations and my oldest friend. The most basic truth is I care nothing about matters of honor or loyalty or country, even my own. I have come to think of things in the context of physical reactions, as matters of deeply rooted instinct. As the Earth descends into chaos, the very chaos I waited ten years for, I find I can no longer fight those instincts.

"When I took it upon myself to rebuild that Gundam, to finish a duel, I did it as though it were the only thing I could do, as though it were no different than breathing. I used the considerable resources afforded to me by the Order to recreate the Gundam, locate the pilot, and have that very duel, only to have it interrupted again. As that happened, I began to realize how ridiculous all of this must have seemed to those pilots in the pursuit squadron or to anyone else. It was then I had an epiphany. What I said concerning Outer Space was no delusion, on the contrary, it was the clearest thought I'd had in some time: since the Revolutions, this instinctual insanity that haunts me has spread across Earth. The only people it has spared at those of Outer Space, the Colonial citizenry who are so preoccupied with simply surviving they cannot afford to fight and wage war as we do. Like any good soldier of OZ, I am a humanist. I say 'Long live the colonies,' because they are the only the only hope for the human species to overcome our insane instincts."

Zechs finished and those in attendance just stared at him, as one of the M.P._s_ guarding the doors barely held back a snort. After that, though Chuang visibly buried his face in his hands in response, the chamber remained silent until a snicker echoed from Soris, swiftly turning into outright laughter and she practically threw herself onto her pulpit, chortling wildly. Zechs just stared at her, un-amused, while Farkill began to snicker as well. Brooks shook his head, either at Zechs or at Soris, while Sedici put his palm to his head and sighed.

"I'm sorry for this interruption Zechs," Soris finally said, wiping away a tear with a gloved finger. "I'm afraid I didn't know how to respond to such a preposterous theory that had so little bearing to the procedure at hand!"

Abruptly, a door on the side opened and a junior officer stood at attention, bathed in the light from the outside hall. He promptly ran over to the pulpit and whispered something to Soris as she kept snickering, then departed.

"It appears it's just as well, we'll need to postpone this pretrial hearing anyway," she explained, rising from her seat. "Zechs Merquise, you're dismissed with the…thanks…of the court and will be summoned when needed."

Seemingly carefree, Soris left the pulpit as the screens around her switched off. Parsons adjusted his collar, shuffled his papers, and stepped towards Zechs.

"She's from the colonies, you know," he whispered.

Zechs glanced at him. Parsons imagined he was confused under that mask.

"Colonel Armonia. She and her sister are from some colony or another. They were child soldiers, taken from a war orphanage to become commandos. But after the revolts in 'Eighty-Eight, they were discarded and ended up on Earth, in OZ." He paused. "Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

Zechs blinked. "What were they trained for?"

"Operation 'M', or to fight on some other colony? Does it really matter?" Parsons asked, before taking his papers and leaving Zechs standing alone in the spotlight, the darkness concealing the wide grin.

**VII**

"Yes, Your Excellency, I've just touched down."

"_Pay your respects to Tubarov, naturally._" There was a pause on the mobile. "_Walker, I need the name of someone reliable in the transport fleet near Argentina._"

F/L Walker thought about it. "Lieutenant Brown, aboard the _Sydney _out of Patuakhali. His freighter can carry at least one mobile suit, sir."

"_That should do, well Walker. I'll see you at the proving grounds._"

"Yes sir, Colonel." Walker pocketed his mobile and grabbed his suitcase.

Having landed in Düsseldorf, he headed straight for the Ruhr Valley No. 4 Mobile Suit Factory. Though it also specialized in Leo production, Ruhr Valley was tiny compared to Corsica, and intended for specialized projects. It was best known for its large, grassy proving grounds and testing ranges.

After climbing on a tram car from the airfield, Walker was still reading through Villemont's book when he decided to finally address the junior officer sitting across from him who, not very discreetly, stole the occasional glance his way.

"Can I help you?" he asked in as friendly a tone as he could manage.

"Oh, sorry," the other man admitted sheepishly. His epaulets indicated he was an F/O. "You're Flight Lieutenant Walker, right sir?"

Walker nodded and stared hard at him. The way he'd made that statement implied they'd met before, that much was clear. "…were you in Corsica? In April, after the Gundam attack?"

He nodded swiftly. "Yes, sir. Abraham Tal, sir. We both know Ben Disraeli, I think?"

Walker shook his hand when he extended. "Of course. Are you on your way to the Ruhr Valley, Mr. Tal?"

"Just call me 'Talik', sir. And yes, I'm here for MD development, as I believe…you are," he said, gesturing at the book.

The tram passed by a warehouse as Walker tried to finish the chapter he was reading, when something caught his eye. Once again, Talik seemed to observe this.

"Something the matter, sir?"

"No, nothing I just…" he paused, when he saw that Talik was now looking at what had caught his eye: a number of wooden pallets carrying spare mobile suit servomotors and actuators, being loaded onto a cargo truck. "A little big for Leos, wouldn't you say?"

Talik pulled back his cap as he leaned over in the tram for a better look. "I suppose they are sir."

After entering the shadow of a building, the tram came to a halt and Talik promptly took off, apparently excited.

"Come on, sir!"

Walker followed Talik into the interior of one of the larger fabrication halls where he saw the show: the prototype and demonstration model mobile dolls, each an extensively modified mobile suit from OZ's terrestrial forces, still painted cobalt blue.

Immediately, Walker noticed there weren't operational; each one had its torso taken apart and its central column—the ultracompact fusion reactor, magnetohydrodynamic core and central drive system assembly, along with the standard OZ cockpit module and even the armored cockpit hatch—sitting on the floor in front of it.

"I was under the impression we would be working on mobile dolls. Not mobile doll _theory_."

Talik looked at him and laughed grimly. "Well, you're not too far off. These are the original mobile dolls, OZ-00-MD, created at the Romefeller Foundation's request to reopen an avenue into unmanned warfare for the Alliance."

Walker followed him directly to the nearest open cockpit, which actually had an engineer sitting inside, his head obscured by part of the cockpit. "They were never made operational, but the Alliance did approve the development of the first mobile doll, a feature included into the Taurus."

Talik glanced at him. "So I bet you're wondering why we've dug these gems up again."

"Because programming a mobile doll primarily for space combat was straightforward. Making a mobile doll operational, at full gravity, for terrestrial warfare was never actually accomplished, was it?"

Talik blinked. "Right on the nose, sir."

"The colonel pretty much said as much in his book, and it's common knowledge that unmanned aircraft and spacecraft were incorporated into the Alliance military in a way that was never met by a unmanned terrestrial weapon. Even things like automated turrets haven't failed to be disappointments." He glanced at Talik. "I also have experience restoring old equipment to operational status."

"Well I'm glad someone did their homework."

Walker turned in the direction of the deep voice coming from the second cockpit and stood at attention. "Colonel Villemont, Flight Lieutenant Walker, reporting from the Seventh Airborne Division."

A middle-aged man with a large nose and grey, swept-back hair emerged from the cockpit, clad in the elaborate robes of a Romefeller Foundation dignitary. His face was marked with deep creases on his cheeks and a strong brow that hid his eyes. Tubarov Villemont.

"Call me Tubarov," he instructed, standing up straight and fixing his elaborate clothes. "I heard you were one of the boys from Corsica, the one who found and restored Tallgeese."

Walker's response was delayed. He was actually waiting to see of Tubarov mentioned his other project, the design of OZ's Gundam, right off the bat. "Yes sir."

"Well, all the other combat engineers are being diverted across the fronts and Singapore, so you were what the General Staff could spare. Get dressed and get to work."

"Yes sir!" Walker obediently saluted as Tubarov rushed off, apparently busy. The earlier cockpit's hydraulics hissed and the door opened, and the occupant looked in his direction, a pencil in his mouth.

"Walker?"

He turned and glanced over. "Mieser? You're still alive?"

**VIII**

"It must have weighed…approximately seven and a half tonnes dry, going by the wreckage. It looks like it more extensively armored than any of the other Gundams…"

OZ combat engineers and technical crews were scattered across the Singapore Cosmodrome, all traffic having ended after four Gundam simultaneously attacked the spaceport just the day before.

In his grey working suit, Yoshitsune shuffled what had been ground zero of Gundam-04's self-destruction, amid the wreckage of dozens of Leo mobile suits.

"All the wreckage should be closer to ground zero, use that to sort through the actual parts…" There was a loud engineering officer who was wearing his uniform coat, albeit partially unbuttoned and without the uniform blouse, yelling over a handset as a nearby team with a earthmover continued clearing debris. "…no, it was just the one Gundam. Yes, just the one, Unit Zero-Four."

The loud officer apparently got a response. "Well, then get ahold of one of the guys in battalion and tell them to get over here with a Leo!"

"I have to admit, I get a kick out of watching you engineers work."

Yoshitsune looked over his shoulder to see Squadron Commander Krist, in uniform, sunglasses reflecting the wreckage around Singapore Cosmodrome and saluted. "Sir, Master Aircrew Yoshitsune Miyamoto…"

"From Walker's company, right? Well, grab a shovel and help yourself," Krist said, producing a cigarette case from his uniform before offering one to Yoshitsune, who gracious accepted and put it behind his right ear. The two took a leisurely stroll through the wreckage, watching trailers slowly ferry away what was left of the Gundam.

"…and after Xinjiang, the Seventh Airborne was pegged for Space Forces. But I can't take low gravity, so here I am, _non assegnatti_, racking up frequent flier points."

"Sorry to hear it."

"It's not so bad, sir."

"You should find yourself a good Leo unit, keep those feet planted on the ground."

There was a crackling over the public address system. "_Attention all personnel! A decoy H.L.V. is descending approximately sixty kilometers to the west in two-zero-zero seconds, do not look directly into the blast, I repeat, do not look directly into the blast!_"

Still enjoying his cigarette, Krist shifted his weight on his feet and looked directly west, while Yoshitsune crouched behind a trailer, facing east.

"Besides, with the Gundams fleeing for space, our lives will be that much easier. It was bad enough fighting both the Alliance and the Gundams, now Space Forces can take some of the pressure."

"You think they're ready to handle it, sir?"

"No idea. Those new Taurus units are nasty pieces of work, but that might not be able to make up for low battalion strength and so few divisions. My son's stationed on _Barge_. I hope they know what they're doing in hostile territory."

There was a bright streak falling down from the sky at nearly a ninety degree angle, causing Yoshitsune to duck away just as it vanished on the horizon, followed by a twinkle and then a blinding flash as the H.L.V.'s nuclear engines detonated.

"Still, you'll never get me on one of those things," he mumbled, as his sunglasses glowed, reflecting the explosion.

While the military anxiously removed the Gundams' handiwork, in Old Denver, the Republic of Utah unhappily thanked OZ's delegation for their time and patience before departing from Republican Square.

"Finally," Kaneshiro Kanna groaned, propping her boots up on the conference table and yawning. "The days are too long not to have caffeine, and too short not to have alcohol," she mumbled.

"This must have been a punishment for something we did," Levinsky mumbled. "Why else send a pair of flight officers to chat it up the Mormons about a document neither side was happy with." He removed his garrison cap and slid it across the table.

"Besides being a surefire way to make the actual negotiations next week look meaningful, no matter how badly they go."

Kanna cocked her head. "That's actually pretty believable."

"Thank you, I try ma'am," he replied, waving a hand in front of the large flatscreen monitor hanging from the wall. It came on to a British Broadcasting Corporation affiliate covering a religious event in Rome.

"Looks like they're having fun," Kanna mumbled.

"I bet the Catholics are at least allowed to drink coffee," Levinsky offered. "Childish jibes aside, I'm not convinced New Jerusalem is going to make good on any peace treaty. Look at Bundt: he was a foreigner, but if a Gundam hadn't killed him, you'd probably still be in Xinjiang. It's going to take nuclear weapons to remove Grumman, the quintessential Utahan insider from the Alliance Continental Military District. And if the Zionist Party gave him permission to invade Colorado…"

Levinsky plopped down in a chair and shook his head as the broadcast continued quietly in the background.

"Actually, I think the Mormons are our best hope," Dorothy announced abruptly from behind, her eyes on the monitor.

Kanna looked over at the girl. "'_Nani?_"

"Those Alliance officers and politicians who are Mormons have a considerable investment in their republic. Unlike the unfortunate African and Australian servicemen who are defenders of the republic only by virtue of having been stationed here when the Revolution began, this is their Holy Land."

"Okay, now you've lost both of us, Ms. Dorothy."

Dorothy turned and gave an irreverent shrug in her formal gown. "Their church is not a very old one. I've been told in the American midwest, there's a place called 'Jackson, Missouri'. It was to be the site of their New Jerusalem. But history happened, and four hundred years later, Mormons are still outnumbered individually by Catholics, Methodists and other Christian sects in those lands, so they made the practical decision to build their promise land in Utah, the center of their faith in Earth Sphere."

She looked back at the news footage change on the monitor. "The Foundation values culture, tradition, stability. Without those, it is nothing."

Kanna stared at her then followed her gaze to the monitor, where footage from Vatican City showed the ceremonies surrounding two Catholic saints: Martha of Bethany and Ignatius of Loyola. Levinsky reached forward and with a hand gesture raised the volume on the monitor.

"St. Ignatius," Levinksy pointed out, as Kanna just stared at the broadcast blankly. "He's a patron saint of soldiers, like St. George. See all the officers?"

After a moment, the cameraman panned to reveal at least a hundred OZ junior officers, in full dress uniform and red capes, standing in Saint Peter's Square in attendance of the familiar Bishop of Rome, Pope Peter Paul II.

Kanna stared at Dorothy suspiciously. "Ms. Dorothy, I wanted to ask, is it possible you were sent here to put a muzzle on us, the Mobile Suit Troops? To make sure OZ, enjoying its victory, didn't stomp all over the defeated because we could? And it was easy, since we didn't expect to win this fast."

"Who exactly _did _send you from the Romefeller Foundation?" Levinsky asked.

In the dim light, the two stared at the very young woman, who watched until the video feed returned to the news anchors. Dorothy gave them another eerie smile before smoothing out her dark blue sash. "A solution is just a problem in a different dress. OZ cannot sweep across the world and obliterate the enemy fast enough, and every Alliance remnant will wrap itself in the flag of the unfortunate land they were left in and declare themselves the new national military forces, protected by OZ's own words. It'll never end."

Kanna and Levinsky stared at the girl from the Foundation as she stared serenely back at the monitor, now showing video from the Gundam attack on Singapore.

**IX (Eyecatch)**

Lieutenant Colonel Brooks had known Lady Soris for some time, since they both received the rank of baron from the Romefeller Foundation—making her the Baroness of Oviedo and him the Baron of Redbourne. They couldn't be considered friends, but they did share similar interests aside from their obvious profession as OZ Mobile Suit Troops officers.

Sitting in an office in the Libertador in Buenos Aries, Brooks silently watched Soris rapidly pace about the office, snapping instructions into her mobile.

"Damn it all, is this what happens when Une isn't stalking him, breathing down his neck at every turn? Are we so unable to function without that German masochist sticking her foot up our collective ass?"

Brooks barely held back a chuckle as Soris kept pacing around. "Then connect me to Une herself!"

Soris' computer beeped as it received a message. Brooks arched his back over and, with a single finger, tapped the enter key, bringing up a number of Alliance dossier photographs across the screen. "And what's this about, dear lady?"

She glanced over at him, still holding her mobile. "The Extraterrestrial General Staff is warning about some impending storm, something about the death of Alliance brass in space, particularly Eleanor Arroway, having caused a power vacuum among the remaining Space Forces that's going to be filled with desperate officers," she warned. "And before you ask, I know it's serious, but I don't think we're wasting our time to be investigating a lieutenant colonel who harbored two Gundams and shot down multiple airmen from a pursuit squadron!"

Brooks didn't bother holding back his laugh, wondering who she was yelling at: him or the mobile. _It's hard to believe she enjoys yelling and running around like that. If I didn't know better…_

Soris interrupted his thoughts with another bark. "Fine! Give my regards to His Excellency!" she snapped before throwing the mobile against the chair next to his, where it bounced against the cushion. She stopped pacing and crossed her arms in front of the fireplace, gritting her jaw and closing her eyes.

"I told you they'd let him off," Brooks began.

"I'm not in the mood, Broom," she countered as she smoldered quietly.

"If I remember correctly, 'Broom-_stick_' was my aviator call sign," Brooks reminded her, thinking of his old nickname from his days as a F/O. Somehow it had followed him to the rank of lieutenant colonel. "But I did warn you, didn't I? Zechs is Treize's pet. The Foundation or the military courts aren't going to change that."

"He's also OZ's greatest living ace," she mumbled.

"That too." He leaned his chair. "So, what's his penance?"

"Well, well, perhaps I can shed some light, sirs!" an insidious little voice said from behind them.

The two turned to see O/C Parsons standing at the door, running a hand through his straight black hair and grinning happily. His informality was hidden behind his obvious excitement and self-satisfaction.

"If it isn't Zechs' adolescent defender," Brooks mumbled.

Parsons strolled into the room, practically dancing, as he strolled up to the table Brooks was sitting at. "Please, I'm not a child. And also, _I know something you don't know…_" he sang.

"Given your sudden informality, I'm assuming this is important, Officer Cadet," Soris mumbled, still staring into the fireplace.

"Did you know Tallgeese left El Palomar some time ago?"

Soris turned slowly to him. "Please continue."

While Parsons told his tale, Zechs was already over the Pacific Ocean in a helicopter following the OZ-00MS 'Tallgeese' mobile suit, which sat in the hull of OZAV _Sydney_, a transport ship for Mobile Suit Troops. By the time he caught up with it, the sun was already rising south of Australia. A friendly noncommissioned officer on watch greeted him on the deck of the vessel, saluting from the stairs.

As custom demanded, as he had enough space to stand on the helicopter's stairway, he saluted the OZ naval ensign waving from the stern of the ship before addressing the NCO. "I have permission to come onboard," he announced from the helicopter.

The NCO on watch nodded. "Very well, sir. Please follow me." They were followed by a less friendly looking midshipman armed brandishing his sidearm.

They descended under the deck to the communications room where the commanding officer was waiting.

"Commander, may I present Colonel Zechs Merquise."

As the ranking officer from the military technical services, Brown was a senior lieutenant, equal in rank to an F/O of the mobile Suit Troops. "Thank you. Please excuse the room, sir."

As Zechs took a seat, he addressed the two armed men. "That won't be necessary for the Colonel, you're dismissed."

"Yes sir!"

The console Zechs was sitting at beeped, as a radio transmission came in. "_Sorry for making you uncomfortable, Zechs_."

"Don't worry, your Excellency. I'm prepared to finish this court martial."

"_So long as you're a strong force for the Romefeller Foundation's interests, I see no problems with your military court trial._"

"A strong force?"

"_The Foundation is concerned with the Gundams, the most powerful weapons on Earth. Would you continue as a knight of the Order, to fight the Gundams?_"

_He already knows the answer to this. _Zechs gave a somber reply. "I'm sorry your Excellency. I don't believe I can follow Romefeller's party line any farther."

"_I'm sorry?_" the voice asked dutifully.

"I've been fighting the Gundams as part of a personal vendetta, something that has no place in war. And now it's finished…" he began.

"_I know. In that case, Zechs, give your life for OZ. A ruling on your guilt in a military court would be a great blow to OZ, but if you fell honorably in battle, soldiers would still mourn you. I think that will satisfy the higher powers. The name 'Lightning Count' will live on in legend. It would be for the best._"

There was a pause. At the other end of the line, Treize walked along the old buildings overlooking the proving grounds at the Ruhr Valley. Six OZ-06MS 'Leo' mobile suits, three in Alliance livery and three in OZ colors, had been brought for a demonstration.

"At least your death would mean something. And you'll still be free. Goodbye, Zechs, my friend_._"

He looked into the observation tower, where the Duke of Liechtenstein, whom had accompanied him to the Düsseldorf, was speaking with Tubarov, his favorite engineering chief. Pocketing the earpiece, he stared at a Leo that stood with its hatch opening, his thoughts clouded by the last conversation he ever expected to have with his closest friend. _When confronted with melancholy, it's a human thing to make a bad decision or two…_

As Treize contemplated, Walker caught a brief glimpse of him from one of the mobile gantries parked around the three cadet blue mobile suits, before adjusting his goggles as they rested on the grey work cap atop his head.

Even after reading books, Walker only knew Tubarov Villemont by reputation. Years ago, before Walker was born, he'd been Major Tubarov Villemont of the small French Self-Defense Forces, the eldest son of a French lieutenant general.

Twenty years ago, after a successful military career, Tubarov changed his politics, siding with the French Monarchist League: a group that was favorably called "out of touch" and negatively labeled much worse, and sought the resurrection of the ancient Bourbon Monarchy after a half-millennium absence. Though his opinion, while extreme, was not illegal, he'd taken the opportunity to leave the army and accept a higher commission in the Alliance military, that of colonel. In actuality, his new rank was simply a cover for his real position: the new chief engineering advisor for the pro-monarchist Romefeller Foundation. While never holding a rank in the Speciali, he nonetheless oversaw the development of mobile suits in OZ, with a particular focus on experimental software development. Since then, he had two major contributions: he'd brought French expertise with conventional artillery in the development of the OZ-07MS 'Tragos', whose development coincided with the Aries, and a breakthrough in cognitive/decision making software and artificial intelligence, called the Mobile Direct Operational Lead & Labor software, with the convenient acronym Mobile Doll.

No one could deny Tubarov has done great things from a technological standpoint. And from the most simplistic standpoint, the notion of removing the human element from mobile suit warfare, and the liabilities cited to it, perfectly corresponded with the Foundation's humanism and neoliberalism. But in this case, the most simplistic view was also fundamentally flawed.

"All right, everyone, successful boot up. Power down the APUs and move to the next phase." Walker kept his thoughts to himself as the OZ-00MD units powered down, having made their point to the audience in the observation tower.

After just a day, Walker was unsure what to make of Tubarov. Unlike many in the Foundation, Tubarov was willing to get his hands dirty, at least figuratively. He expected exacting results, and had a tendency to get them. As such, he was the prototypical old engineer—you didn't stay an engineer as long as Tubarov had without being demanding.

As part of an engineering detail requested by Treize for the presentation to Duke Dermail, Tubarov viewed Walker with suspicion initially. But in the few hours, Walker had done exactly as promised, and Tubarov seemed pleased with the results.

"Bring Unit One to full power again." Upon hearing Tubarov's gruff voice, Walker turned from his workplace at Unit 1's back, to the jeep that had driven up to it with Tubarov in it.

Mieser immediately interjected. "Sir, we're still calibrating the transformer…"

Tubarov rolled his eyes. "Walker!" he barked.

Walker knew what to say, for once. "Chief Engineer, what can I do for you?"

Standing in his dark grey jumpsuit—the standard working uniform for OZ's engineers, even though OZ had begun as an engineering cartel, their actual engineers looked like everyone else's in their work clothes—he was largely indistinguishable from all other engineers, except for his plastic nametag, the rank insignia on his collar and his goggles. His sleeves were rolled up to his arms. "Walker, you said you could replace the reactors on all three units with APUs in time for the demonstration, and you did. I like to reward competency with the expectation of more competency."

Walker played to his best strength: speaking in a tone of voice that conveyed seriousness and dedication, though not much else. "As you can see, we've done most of the hardware work. If you'd like, test it out for yourself."

Mieser stared at Walker as Tubarov climbed up the folding ladder on the side of the mobile gantry, scoffed and typed in a command routine via the nearby computer. On the screen, Unit 1's transformers and power distribution systems showed the normal electrical energy of over twelve-hundred kilowatts being distributed to the cockpit electronics, servomotors, gyroscopes, cameras and other systems from the alternate power unit.

_What now? Is he going to have the Leo knock down the gantries and squish us all? _Walker listened to the familiar hum of a Leo standing idle.

Tubarov glanced at the machine, then back at the displays, before switching them off. "Good. I don't mind telling you I'm impressed, Walker, I wasn't sure you could do it this fast."

"It's not the first time I removed the fusion reactor from a mobile suit, chief engineer."

"Walker, if you're going to be cocky, try and at least put some feeling into it," he told him gruffly. "Have the other two units ready immediately. We're moving onto live fire exercises for His Grace."

"Yes, Chief Engineer."

Tubarov climbed back down the gantry, as Walker wiped his hands on his jumpsuit. "Let's finish up here."

Mieser was lying on his back again and Walker used the controls to raise the gantry so he'd have better reach for the underside of the APU core assembly that stood in the place of where the mobile suit's reactor would be. "...so, I was still at Barclay Kamb when the commandos arrived. We all surrendered, of course, and were transferred to the holding center at Santiago. I was hoping for a dishonorable discharge, not a prison sentence. And forget about my commission."

"So what happened?"

"His Excellency happened. I could either wait for my case to come up or join the mobile doll demo at Ruhr Valley. That was an easy decision."

Mieser sighed, looking over a switchboard. "I should have listened to Bishop. She said we were all insane. Apparently, some of us more than others."

He saw Walker pause briefly in mid step, before turning back to workstation.

"So, how have you been?"

"Better than you, I think. Though if I don't fire a weapon soon, I'm going to forget how." In his left breast pocket, Walker's mobile vibrated and he took it out, checking the screen.

"Who's that?"

Walker didn't answer but just stared at his mobile for a few seconds. Something strange seemed to happen, as though the cognitive processes in his mind had abruptly halted and were clicking back to life, now turned around. He removed his goggles and began typing rapidly into the computer; Mieser got up just in time to see he was removing entire pages of code, one by one.

"Walker?"

Again he was ignored. "Talik, run the four subroutines and the batch programmer on all three units."

"Right now?"

"Yes, right now! Then reboot and prepare for the next phase." He stopped with the computer and switched it off. "Mieser, get in a uniform and follow my lead."

**X**

Despite its advocacy of revolutionary technology, the Romefeller Foundation was reluctant to throw its weight behind every technological development that came before it—that was OZ's area of expertise. Nonetheless, the Foundation's financial resources were necessary to pay both for research and to offer high wages to lure the best and brightest minds from other fields to that of weapons development. Through OZ, the Foundation had made successfully gambled and won on the mobile suit, but its leadership, sophisticated, supremely civilized and steeped in tradition, had to be swayed to gamble on a new concept.

Duke Dermail Catalonia stood in the observation tower, as the officers on duty changed shifts, led by a flight lieutenant who was quickly wiping his face with a handkerchief that he pocketed and took a seat at the main console.

"Your Grace, Colonel Tubarov, we're ready to move onto the next phase," the lieutenant announced. Dermail noticed Tubarov's nod to the officer, he seemed to recognize him.

"Well, Tubarov, your equipment turning on is impressive, but we saw that a year ago," he surmised. "Surely since the arrival of the Gundams and the move to Outer Space, you have something else to show us?"

"Of course, Catalonia!" the colonel responded—it was rare for someone to take such a familiar tone with the Duke of Liechtenstein, but he didn't seem to notice—before he looked over the folder in his hands. "We should be ready to move to the simulation phase. Order all three units moved into the field!"

It took a few minutes, but all three testing units stomped under their own power into the middle of the proving grounds, followed by the mobile gantries that also carried their APUs. All three were now armed with the standard 105 mm autocannon.

"Units One, Two, and Three in place sir!"

"Deploy the unmanned targets."

"Yes sir!"

"You'll have to forgive me, it's nothing spectacular—just some tanks on remote and the usual firing range targets."

"If they can hit those, I'll be impressed enough," Dermail responded.

"Commence the simulation!"

On three monitors above the windows, video feed came in from the cockpit cameras—but since the cockpits were empty, they served instead to show the mechanical motions mimicked by each mobile doll's central computer, in the fly-by-wire cockpits. It looked just like footage Tubarov had seen of the cockpit of a Taurus mobile doll in operation.

With small, computerized movements, the three mobile dolls on the grounds raised their autocannons and began firing short, controlled bursts, first at the various tank targets. Their fire was precise but made somewhat less accurate by the machines' shared inability to compensate for recoil. They made short work of three groups of targets, before turning their fire on a number of paper targets erected in front of the hill at the far end of the grounds, before going silent.

From inside an unmodified Leo intended for a longer demonstration planned for the future, Treize watched the show, unhappy but not unimpressed. _I know better than to dismiss this. The unfortunate necessity of mobile dolls in Outer Space was one thing, but this…_

He glanced at his notebook balanced on his left knee, the screen split between schematics for intermediate and full modifications to Tallgeese, OZ-00MS2 and OZ-00MS2B, before closing it and setting it on the cockpit floor between his legs. "Time to be human."

"Demonstration is complete sirs," the lieutenant announced in the observation tower.

"So this is your mobile doll system!"

Tubarov was pleased. "We're using an old model here, a Leo, remotely controlled. But no such concern exists with our currently deployed Taurus space mobile dolls."

"Very impressive, Tubarov! So they _could_ reinforce existing soldiers in the armies?"

"I expect they'll replace soldiers as the main force of any army in the near future."

_This again. _"About that, Tubarov…" Dermail chose his words carefully as the three units started firing again, despite the demonstration having ended. He didn't give it any thought until a burst of 105 mm HEAM fire struck the armored shield in front of the observation tower, shaking it on its foundations. "What was that?"

"Sir, a hostile unit has appeared directly downfield and is firing at our position!" the lieutenant announced. "It's not broadcasting its IFF!"

While Dermail stood flustered, Tubarov was gleeful. "Perfect target for the mobile dolls! Engage the offensive programming routine!"

"Yes sir!" the lieutenant said as he entered in the command.

The three demonstration units moved from their general standby routine, where they'd been triggered to fire downrange again with the appearance of a preprogrammed target—a standard Alliance Leo—to their rather crude defensive routine, in which they raised their autocannons and engaged. Low power HEAM ammunition—cheap practice warheads and half-charges of propellant—raked the moss green Leo.

"How stupid for an enemy saboteur, after getting so far!" Tubarov observed.

"Sir, the enemy Leo is hailing us." The lieutenant's display switched to the video feed from the cockpit camera and the officer nearly jumped out of his seat. "Colonel Treize!"

"What?" both Romefeller leaders asked simultaneously.

"Discontinue attack! Engage manual shutdown!" the lieutenant ordered over his headset, causing the other officers to countermand his order.

Treize stopped shaking on the video feed as the fire stopped, his Leo now pockmarked with dozens of low-impact rounds. The barrage had stopped his machine in its tracks, but he seemed to regain his composure immediately and spoke. "_Good day, gentlemen. I thought I'd represent humanity's soldiers and offer to battle against these mobile dolls_."

As Treize's Leo stared down the three units, Tubarov snatched a headset from another officer. "Hoping to die, Treize? Mobile dolls don't show mercy like a human soldier would!"

Treize kept his eye on the three mobile suits from his cockpit. He hadn't operated a mobile suit in combat since his promotion to commander of the Specials, and the violent shuddering from before had gotten to him. Still, there was no turning back now. "If mobile dolls _are_ superior, then I don't belong here. I think we should determine superiority here and now. Here I go."

He didn't wait for an answer, but instead leaned forward on his right flight stick and set his machine marching forward, firing a burst directly into the torso of one of the demonstration units, hoping to knock free the spinal cable from its APU.

"Treize!" Dermail mumbled unhappily.

"The man is insane! Never mind, kill the Colonel!" Tubarov shouted, ignoring Dermail's stare.

"Sir!" the officer objected.

"That's an order, Flight Lieutenant! The man is trying to kill us! Destroy him!"

The lieutenant leapt from his seat. "Sir, I cannot do that!"

"Then I will!" Tubarov ordered, pushing the thin lieutenant back into his seat and undoing the countermand.

"_Sir, you can't do that!_"

"_Shut your damn trap, Walker!_" Treize listened to the ensuing struggle from the observation tower, just barely able to make out the voices as the sound of incoming fire resumed, deafeningly loud.

_Next time, ear protection. Unless there's no sound at all. _"This is Treize Khushrenada," he announced, keeping his voice as even as he could. "Walker, execute Tubarov!"

"Yes sir!" Standing from his position, Flight Lieutenant Walker pulled the fastest quickdraw of his career, yanking out his service pistol and aiming it at Tubarov's head. By the time Tubarov responded, a junior officer had drawn his own sidearm as well and aimed it threateningly, joined by a third behind Walker.

"Mieser!" Walker ordered.

Mieser immediately paced around, interposing himself between Tubarov and the three other Foundation officials. "Your Grace, please stand back!"

"What the hell is this?" Tubarov demanded.

Outside, Treize had squeezed the trigger on his autocannon until the underpowered testing rounds it carried jammed inside the barrel. He jettisoned the weapon and withdrew a beam saber from the rack in his shield, setting it to full power.

_This is more like it! _Feeling the not-so-distant past return to him, he fired his aft-mounted thrusters and charged shield first the leftmost Leo, bashing it hard enough to crack its camera and stun it—a single swipe, and his beam saber had cut through from its right shoulder to its left thigh, and its fell back onto its APU, causing it to explode in a small fireball. Burning debris showered down on the observation tower.

The remaining two mobile dolls could barely respond: just as the middle one turned, Treize cut clean through its autocannon's drum feed and its torso, letting it fall back onto its own APU, then brought his beam saber down on the final unit's cranium, cutting it apart. In the observation tower, Dermail stared, mystified, as all three officers kept their pistols trained on Tubarov.

"No, stop!"

"By orders of Colonel Treize Khushrenada, I'm executing you, Chief Engineer!" Walker said, almost stammering. After all, a colonel like Tubarov could hardly countermand that order, could he? Duke Dermail was not military leader but a civilian one—and he wasn't saying anything.

"_It's over,_" Treize announced, standing among three ruined mobile dolls. "_Chief Engineer Tubarov, there's more to war than fighting with mobile suits. _We _claim victory. I retract my order._"

Walker, Mieser and the third officer lowered their pistols obediently, and Treize continued. "_Mobile dolls and mobile suit troops both take their orders from humans. I ask that you place more value on humans and learn to love them._"

Duke Dermail exhaled deeply under his mustache, shaking his head. Walker looked at him, and felt, for certain, that despite everything he was happy with the outcome, as oppose to the alternative. Outside, as the smoke cleared, Treize instinctively opened his cockpit hatch, undid his restraints and climbed up, holding the top of the door frame with one gloved hand and propped a boot on the hatch. The wind was blowing away some of the evidence of his acts and his cape flapped in the breeze.

"Hurry and return, Zechs. If you're not around to help me, OZ will allow worthless actions by worthless people."

The doors to the observation room opened, as a number of other junior officers appeared, looking around at the three tense OZ officers and four Foundation dignitaries.

"Sirs, w-what's going on? We saw the fire on the proving grounds…"

Tubarov was about to being another bout of yelling before the rather quiet Duke stepped in. "There's no problem, the chief engineer was just humoring me with a change to the demonstration routine. I hope it hasn't caused any problems."

_Besides the destruction of three critical prototypes_, Walker thought. As soon as the dignitaries departed, Walker sprinted down the tower and onto the grounds, taking a motorcycle to meet Colonel Treize riding the tether down from the damaged Leo.

"Your Excellency, I just…are you all right, sir? You closed the channel…"

"My ears are ringing a little bit, but I was never in any real harm," Treize assured him. Walker nodded, at a loss for words, as Treize's ceremonial saber jingled as he walked. "I expect you're wondering about the change of plan."

Walker sighed, pulling his flight goggles up onto his forehead, before standing at ease at his motorcycle, looking equal parts tired and confused. "Sir, I do think that the disruptive program would have worked."

"I think you're entitled to an explanation, but first, did you happen to get my other request?" Treize asked. Obediently, Walker rooted through the saddlebag before producing a bottle of expensive cognac and a crystal glass. Holding the cognac glass under his arm, he awkwardly opened the bottle and then awkwardly but carefully poured it, as Treize continued.

"I'm confident that the original plan of activating a subroutine that would trigger target misidentification during the demonstration, turning the mobile dolls against each other, would have worked. But simple sabotage was not wasn't what the situation called for, Walker."

After taking a sip, Treize offered him the half-empty glass. "No thank you, sir."

"The last-minute change was necessary." He chuckled, swishing the glass about. "And, like this other request, I doubt Lady Une would have allowed it if she were here. Thank you for your work."

Walker was still visibly upset. "Of course, Your Excellency," he said before reaching into the other saddlebag. "I think I have a helmet here for you, I'll just walk back to base."

"That won't be necessary. The walk'll do me some good, perhaps help with my ears. And there's one last thing I have to ask of you."

"Is this about the Tallgeese parts here at Ruhr Valley?" Walker's tone had changed.

"Very good," Treize said, taking the bottle from him. "You should know that Tallgeese's final encore is upon us. I can sense your just pride of ownership. There should be a cargo helicopter waiting at the airfield, you should go there."

Walker didn't respond immediately. When he did, it was after he rubbed his eyes on his sleeve and climbed onto the motorcycle, starting it up. "Yes sir, Your Excellency. I'll leave immediately." He pulled down his goggles and revved the small engine.

"One last thing sir: if the Space Forces General Staff's reports are accurate, you are responsible for the first three mobile doll losses in OZ!" he shouted over the engine.

Treize almost laughed. "That's good to hear, Walker." OZ's commander-in-chief saluted him, and Walker saluted back before driving off. Taking one last look at the Leo behind him, Treize resisted the urge to whistle a tune and strolled off towards the observation tower.

**XI**

There was a succession of sharp knocks at the door of F/L Ogasawara's room on Space Fortress _Barge_, causing her to immediately sit up on her mattress.

"What the hell is it now?" She groggily checked the digital clock built into her nightstand and stretched out her long legs. Before she could find out, she had to address her state of undress: a black cotton undershirt and underwear weren't going to cut it.

By the time she pulled on her uniform trousers tied her uniform jacket, though not the matching blouse, around her waist, she spotted Carlos, Nabiki and Indira sitting in the hall in their pajamas and a rather felt evening robe respectively.

"What's going on now?" Emi asked as began pulling on her jacket.

"Nobody knows. The floor officer just went down the hall knocking on every door apparently."

"Well, it's not an attack or there'd be a general alert followed by a call to battle stations," Indira pointed out, yawning into the sleeve of her robe. Nabiki seemed to have fallen back asleep, leaning on her shoulder, so she gently pushed her off.

Conveniently, the floor officer appeared sprinting around the corner and needlessly saluted Emi before presenting a folded piece of paper to her before taking off again. Emi unfolded it as Nabiki fell back onto Indira's shoulder.

"What's it say?"

"The whole battalion's been put on alert, more than thirty communication satellites still under Alliance control have gone online, primarily around L1." Emi crushed the paper in her right hand. "It sounds like D-120 is going to make some sort of broadcast."

"Is that what this is all about?" Indira demanded, pushing Nabiki off her shoulder a second time. "So we're on standby until…"

"Until D-120 uses their satellites and we're moved off standby," Emi replied, beginning to button her jacket closed.

"This really sucks, Emi. Wait, are you going somewhere?"

She winked at Carlos, smiling just a little. "Just checking something out."

While the rest of First Recon remained on standby on _Barge_, Lieutenant Colonel Une watched as F/O Nichol, commanding a flight of mobile dolls, moved to intercept a suspicious shuttle that had evaded OZ long enough to arrive in high orbit. She'd had her five high-profile prisoners of war, the Gundam designers, woken up and brought from their cells to have a more private discussion.

Une watched as the flight split up, as Nichol went for the shuttle and his second-in-command was left with the mobile dolls to engage the Alliance, already en route with twenty mobile suits.

In the privacy of a hangar with only a skeleton crew operating, the Gundam designers watched the battle unfold, courtesy of the audio feedback from the battlefield being broadcasted to an online Taurus mobile suit. Twenty Alliance units versus four from OZ.

"So, unmanned mobile suits are now operational?" one asked.

"OZ probably felt they were effective enough weapons in Outer Space, without having to account for obstacles or terrain."

"Battling without getting your hands dirty is merely a game. Fools might start wars, but the bloodshed in battle is never a waste," remarked the designer of Gundam-01, his crude prosthetic claw behind his back.

"Foolish people see that bloodshed and learn to regret their actions. That said, once war turns into a game it becomes mere entertainment," Gundam-02's designer countered.

"I wish they'd just declare a winner already," the designer of the third Gundam mumbled. "Then perhaps no others would have to die."

"Assuming the opponent were innovative enough," Une reminded them.

"Don't question our innovation!" an old man snapped back. "But soldiers sense the responsibilities of combat better if they don't rely on total automation!"

"You think you're innovative enough?" Une questioned. "You might earn the right to stay alive."

"Forget it," Gundam-04's designer said immediately. "I don't speak for my colleagues, but I'd rather die than keep doing this sort of thing."

The hulking designer of Gundam-05 spoke up. "You youngsters, always thinking of things so rationally. But war is anything but rational."

"I was going to give you the chance to build a mobile suit superior to both Tallgeese and the Gundams you built."

"Then you should execute us right now!" the first designer demanded. "I have no intention of lending a hand to these futile war games."

"This isn't up for negotiation," Une reminded him coldly.

"Colonel!" a junior officer announced. "Mr. Nichol is on the line."

Une stepped over to the open Taurus cockpit, grabbed the handhold above the seat and pulled herself in. "What is it, Nichol?"

"_Colonel Une, we've intercepted Alliance transmissions. They're hoping to rescue a Gundam pilot aboard that shuttle!_"

The designers stirred, while Une smirked. "Those imbeciles, wipe them all out!"

"_Affirmative ma'am!"_

When she turned away from the port display monitor, she looked up to see all five Gundam pilots standing just outside her cockpit, on the gantry. Their mood had visibly changed. "Oh?"

Emi, still out of uniform with the absence of her blouse, looked down at them from the hangar control room above, before opening a datalink to Nichol's flight from the nearest computer.

_The dolls are firing accurately in the middle of maneuvers. A human would have to wait until after exiting an 8 g turn to shoot._

Like Une, she watched as the mobile dolls, under the supervision of Nichol's subordinate, simply outflew the Alliance pilots, before sparingly using their lethal beam rifles. Four mobile dolls obliterated five times as many Alliance machines.

"_Ma'am, the main force is destroyed! We're moving to commandeer the shuttle!_"

"Commandeer? What's the point? We have no interest in a Gundam pilot without his Gundam. Destroy the shuttle, kill him," Une ordered coolly, crossing her arms in the cockpit.

"_Yes ma'am!_"

The first designer hastily looked at his colleagues. "Wait!" he finally blurted out. "Would you please hand me a headset?"

"Sure," an amused Une replied. She plugged a headset into a jack in the cockpit and tossed it to him. He ably caught it in his claw before asking her to switch to a particular frequency. Emi didn't have access to that particular mobile suit's radio set, and instead played about with the computer, trying to get a connection with whatever he was listening in on.

"_This is Quatre. To my good friends who have returned to Outer Space, let's do our very best to protect the colonies._" The recording played over and over on a loop.

Une watched the designer—even with his simplistically crude prosthetic eyes, it was clear that the message had struck an emotional note. "Stop them from firing on the shuttle!" he pleaded finally.

"Well, well. You _do _pity those boys you've been using. Then we have an understanding."

The second designer gave a sigh. "Who would have thought we'd end up designing a Gundam for OZ."

Une smirked. "Not really. OZ already has one. You're going to be making something better."

**XII**

The transport ship _Sydney_ cruised in the direction of the afternoon sun, through a disputed region of the Indian Ocean. They'd expected to run into enemy ships and aircraft, but only a friendly tanker and a cargo helicopter.

"Fuel from us and parts for you," Brown reported on the bridge, as Zechs rose from his seat, just as a wave rocked the ship gently.

"Good. I don't think I can afford to ignore Tallgeese's left arm anymore," he told him before leaving the bridge. He declined the stairway towards the helipad as the deck crew immediately began offloading parts for Tallgeese.

"Colonel Zechs. You haven't changed."

Zechs double backed on the staircase and looked in the direction of a cargo pallet being offloaded by crane—it passed to reveal Flight Lieutenant Walker, standing by the helicopter with a toolbox in one hand and a briefcase in the other.

"Walker, I must have some luck left yet. Have you got some parts for me?" Zechs said, giving a grin.

Sitting on the upper deck, with its massive boosters in stowage, was OZ-00MS 'Tallgeese', having its left arm actuator rapidly replaced.

"Mieser sends his best wishes," Walker said, checking over Tallgeese with a tablet.

"He hasn't been canned?"

"Not yet. I think he's claiming you misled the whole engineering staff."

"Good man." Zechs stared over Tallgeese, as Walker stood trying not to fidget. The two watched the deck crew finish with the new actuator and the chief give a thumbs up.

"I'll go make some final adjustments. I'll need to see the combat data as well as…"

Zechs simply nodded as Walker rushed off. Half an hour later, he was sitting inside Tallgeese's cockpit, collecting the mobile suit's combat data and flight records for the last few weeks. Everything appeared in order, even if the controls were poorly calibrated. As he made the changes, Walker briefly visualized Tallgeese firing upon mobile suits from Jagdstaffeln 13 and 88.

_I've never actually sat inside a machine that killed so many other OZ pilots, have I? Because there never were any. How many Alliance survivors can actually claim to have killed officers in the Mobile Suit Troops? And I've never sat inside a Gundam either. _

He switched off the cockpit avionics, sitting in the dim light with an open paper notebook propped against a knee. _This's probably the closest I'll ever come, isn't it? _

Walker took his notebook and climbed out of the cockpit. He felt the gentle rocking of the ship from another wave and climbed onto the gantry way. Behind him, he heard the sound of metal clanging as a crew lowered the shoulder armor into place over the left arm.

"Hey, wait! _Wait!_" Walker took off sprinting as a small wrench slid down the inclined gantry and disappeared in the gap between the two spherical halves of armor that made up the ball-joint with a musical _clang_. "Wait!"

The team paused, one of them pulling back the lever and stopping the shoulder armor about a half-meter over just as Walker came running up.

"Sir, what's wrong?"

"There's a…"

"There's a what, sir?"

Walker stared into the gap, thinking of how simple it was: a gentle rocking motion had led to a wrench rolling off the tool cart, then off the edge of the gantry, and into the ball-joint. There was a minute chance—perhaps one in a thousand—that Tallgeese's maneuvers might force the wrench into the actuator or elsewhere in the servomotor. And then there was a one in three chance that it might jam the servomotor and stop Tallgeese from maneuvering its left arm.

_And here I am, and the beck and call of great men, great warriors. As I always have been. _

He considered leaving it there, letting them lower the joint armor and then the shield assembly over it. Just for a few seconds, he thought about walking away.

Instead, Walker got down on his knees, reached as far as he could, and was able to take the wrench out, handing it to a junior officer, who thanked him profusely. Putting his hands into his pockets, he crossed the cavity and climbed a staircase to the walkway overlooking the hold, where Zechs was watching Tallgeese's boosters be reattached.

"I wondered why that refueling ship was there, given that, in an hour, the _Sydney _will be on the ocean floor. Brown explained it: they were here to take our remaining fuel and equipment," Zechs said, smiling. "Why didn't I realize that? Why did it take someone else to point out something so obvious?"

Walker said nothing, as a military helicopter—a small Sikorsky, not a Mil cargo helicopter—approached over the distance. Zechs watched the helicopter closer. "Walker, I realize how I must appear to you."

"Colonel Zechs, not long ago, I said you'd never done anything that you'd have to explain to me," Walker said softly. "I…I don't understand, do I? I'll never understand. About the Gundams. About the Sanc Kingdom. About Relena Darlian."

The helicopter grew louder. "Are you counting on dying, Colonel?"

"I didn't teach you that well after all," Zechs observed. "If I did, you wouldn't be helping a traitor."

"I can't see the future anymore," Walker said, smiling faintly.

The two stood in silence as the helicopter landed on the deck.

"Looks like your ride's here."

"Do you have confidence in Tallgeese for this?" Walker asked, despite himself.

"Thanks to you and your people, everything's in order, I think. Thank you, Walker."

A junior officer ran up announcing airborne contacts detected on the radar. Walker didn't even hear him between the sound of the helicopter rotors and the waves against the ship. "So they're here."

"Which means they're going to sink this ship." He looked away from Tallgeese. "I'm sorry, Walker."

"You should do your best sir. I still don't know what to think, sir, but make sure you win."

Zechs saluted. "Thank you, Oswald Walker."

"Goodbye, Zechs Merquise." Walker gave one last stern nod before running to the helicopter. He joined Brown and the rest of the _Sydney'_s skeleton crew—no one was remaining on board—and only took one last look after he had buckled himself into his seat. Zechs was staring at Tallgeese again. _Nothing ever changes, does it?_

Zechs took a deep breath before smiling. "It's time to go, Tallgeese."

All around the _Sydney, _submarine carriers from the remains of the UESA 7th Fleet's Indian Ocean Squadron moved into position, deploying their OZ-08MMS 'Cancer' in Alliance Navy turquoise blue with white stripes. Above and farther away, Antonov air carriers deployed multiple squadrons of OZ-07AMS 'Aries'.

Zechs was already inside Tallgeese's armored chassis when the Aries began to descend and submarine-launched missiles blew holes in the _Sydney_. He was shaking with excitement, watching his radar screen light up with contacts.

_Still, It'll be a lot to handle, _he thought as he completed the preflight. Out of the corner of his mask, he spotted something—a small paper note taped over the unmistakably large ejection switch between his knees, just ahead of the pedals. He took it and inspected it.

_In the event of danger, sir, push this. _

_- Walker_

He gave a laugh. "Fifty Aries, twenty Cancers, along with four submarines and whatever other surface ships. I'll prove they underestimated the value of my life."

A single burst of thrust from his massive vernier rocket engines lifted him clear off the _Sydney _and into the air, weaving in and out of fire, the ship sinking behind him. Almost immediately, he was exchanging fire with Aries, blowing them to pieces with his dober gun. The pilots of the Indian Ocean Air Army did a respectable job of tagging his massive machine with chaingun fire, but even their APFSDS rounds couldn't penetrate Tallgeese's abnormally dense, reinforced armor at those angles. As Zechs shook in his cockpit, he let his siege gun hang from his shoulder hardpoint, before drawing his beam saber and cutting the torso of an Aries in half. Snapping back, he spun about and fired a shot into an approaching mobile suit, leaving a gaping hole. It exploded a second later after the reactor fissured from stress. He ejected the empty box magazine, letting it fall to the ocean, before quickly loading another one filled with shaped supercaviating ammunition intended for amphibious use. Spotting a few Cancer lurking under the surface to fire their SLM, he fired three shots, destroying them.

"How many more left?"

They answered his question with more missiles and other ordnance. As he dodged just over the ocean, two Aries caught him off guard and latched onto him.

Zechs leaned on the throttle, putting his machine into war emergency power. "Nice moves! But I'm not dying yet!" As if to refute him, he shook violently in his cockpit as a SLM barrage sent him plummeting into the ocean. When his vision returned, he'd found his mask had cracked, perhaps from the previous impact, or from the torpedoes that were now exploding around him.

He could taste blood. _Treize, stop following me around…_

More torpedoes exploding, leaving his ears ringing and the mask jostling more. "…or else I'll just have to fulfill your radical wishes. Remember what I said: our friendship lasts until this mask breaks!"

**XIII**

Dorothy Catalonia watched the dry farmland of Colorado pass by as her personal aircraft departed for the Romefeller Foundation's North American Headquarters in Canada. She played with the hem of her official gown, running her a hand along the elaborate stitching. In the cabin, a teleconferencing screen in front of her beeped, and the Foundation's coat of arms was replaced by a familiar visage.

"Hello grandfather, how was the Ruhr Valley?"

"_As I said before, Dorothy, you didn't miss anything. Just Tubarov and a few others prattling on about the future of warfare,_" the Duke assured her.

She smiled. "Grandfather, I don't think you're being entirely honest with me."

Dermail sighed. "_You're just like your father, nothing escapes you. If you must know, Treize added some unnecessary drama to what should have been a boring demonstration of military technology. And I would know, I've seen my share of them_."

Dorothy gave a delighted smile. "What did dearest cousin Treize do?"

"_Something rather foolish, but he made his point, my dear._"

"Oh, Grandfather, I really must know…"

In a military helicopter, Walker rested his back against the cabin wall, wearily watching the scenery pass by. For him, it was the end of the era—he had just caught the flashes of fire around Tallgeese before they vanished over the horizon, and he expected it was the last time he'd ever see the original prototype mobile suit. Sunk at the bottom of the Indian Ocean seemed a poor fate for Tallgeese.

_My contribution to the war, gone to ashes and dust. _Walker stared his mobile suit pennant, the same one presented to him by Treize, held in his hands. Just past it, he spotted the radio operator fidgeting at his station, trying to get the attention of the co-pilot. When he leaned over and pointed at his station, Walker finally thought something must be amiss. "What's going on?"

"There's been a general alert across all battlefronts. There's a priority communique from Outer Space."

"From _Barge_?" Walker asked.

The radio operator paused. "No…not _Barge_. This can't be right."

The same thing happened through every ship and base in OZ's possession in Earth Sphere. Kanna and Levinsky watched in the communication room in the Presidential Palace in Denver. A. K. Mazuri and David Ackerson Bishop watched from an office in the Gingrich Space Flight School in Athens, in the disputed zone between the South Atlantic Commonwealth and the Christian States. Dorothy interrupted her conversation with her grandfather to watch on her aircraft, who hurried to watch it in a busy Foundation strategy room. As his personal supersonic shuttle departed from Buenos Aires, Treize Khushrenada's silent meditation was interrupted by a knock against the wall of his stateroom.

"Your Excellency."

"What has happened now, Eva?"

She ran a hand through her hair, looking uncharacteristically exasperated. "You should see this. It was just broadcast from D-120 on multiple channels. It may be a response to Lady Une's speech to the colonies."

Treize tapped his own computer, opening up the datalink to bring in video from Outer Space. Speaking behind a podium was the young, though still older than Treize, Gwinter Septim III, de facto commander-in-chief of Alliance Space Forces and representative of L1-D-120. He stood in the halls of the colonial assembly, with rows of uniformed Alliance high officers—more numerous than the combined General Staffs of OZ—sitting in attendance. The youngest Septim, hardly known as an orator, managed to seem powerful and even larger than life, his strong, stoic features assembled before the remaining leadership of the Earth Alliance military.

_Septim the Third. I was wondering when you would speak. _

The general gestured emotionally from behind a podium bearing the Alliance coat of arms. Behind him were three massive portraits: his father, Marshal Noventa, and Arroway. "_We stand here, in a new dark age. With the loss of our Space Navy and its leadership, especially the venerated Eleanor Arroway, we will not delude ourselves into thinking our resistance against tyranny will be any easier. But do we surrender? No, we only fight stronger! But why continue with this 'futile' struggle, some may ask. It has been twenty years since the Alliance, having brought peace to the Earth, came to Outer Space in the defense of all mankind. We came to bring light into the darkness, to stave off the descent into chaos and anarchy that the worse parts of our humanity brought into space and to champion the best parts that accompanied it. _

_"OZ has usurped power over Earth, the cradle of our species. It blatantly promises to plunge Outer Space into open warfare behind words like 'sovereignty' and 'freedom'. Even now, many of your comrades fight and die valiantly in the face of an evil foe. The Alliance must never abandon Outer Space to such a threat. We must never forget the sacrifices already made on behalf of our righteous cause! My father, Gwinter Septim, made that very sacrifice to resist nothing less than the total destruction of the civilized world! Victory is the only thing we can give to those who have made that ultimate sacrifice. The Alliance _must_ never be defeated! The Alliance _can _never abandon mankind! The Alliance _will_ never abandon the colonies!_

"_God save the Alliance!_" he cried out in Italian.

_"Dio salvi l'Alleanza!_" a hundred voices cried out after him, repeating his words. They repeated over and over again. Reaching out, he flicked the keyboard, switching to a different camera view. The screen changed to rows of Alliance drab-olive uniforms. Among the body of faces he recognized immediately, there were a great many he did not, who chanted hardest and with the most vigor. Young men and women who broke the typical mold of the professional Alliance senior officer, true believers.

_The Alliance's loyal colonial soldiers_. Treize couldn't help but smile at the sight.

_"Dio salvi l'Alleanza! Dio salvi l'Alleanza! Dio salvi l'Alleanza!_" the chorus thundered.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_Well, this comfortably broke the record of longest chapter, but I feel better about not chopping it into pieces. _

_It's worth noting that South America—the continent—has multiple air armies stationed in it: the South American Air Army, the Andean Air Army, the Amazonian Air Army, and the Peruvian Air Army. The UESA's old unified commands (like UESASACOM) are no longer used by OZ, even if the headquarters still exist and are used. Military districts are still in use (each military district, if you remember, has one air army as a general rule). _

_"Dio salvi l'Alleanza," is, to the best of my ability, literally "God save the Alliance." If someone who actually speaks Italian could correct me, I'd be grateful, but I felt the Alliance was long overdue for its counterpart to the very memorable cry of "Sieg Zeon!" As such, you could say this speech is the Alliance's version of Gihren Zabi's most famous speech. I felt I really needed to elaborate on the Alliance, its war with OZ being OZ's most important conflict, even more so than the Gundams and the White Fang perhaps. On the same note, as I elaborated a little bit on Xinjiang, I decided to try something different for the Alliance in North America, returning to a point I elaborated about an Alliance enclave (I also mentioned Haiti and Afghanistan). As you can probably tell, I'm not a Mormon, and I mean no offense to Mormons either—that religion is just particularly useful as a uniquely American religion with a strong representation in North America, and well-suited for the story._


	27. Departure from Earth, I

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 27 – Departure from Earth, I **

In a quaint university town in the North American southeast, F/O Ali Kijana Mazuri and P/O David Ackerson Bishop sat with three other OZ officers undergoing recertification at the local university's tiny space pilot school.

"So when do you think you'll get your results?" one asked Dac from across the table they shared.

"The hell if I know," Dac admitted between a mouthful of oily crisps, which he took from the communal bowl. "God help me if I don't get it soon."

"I won't be here to help you, I'll be in Algeria with the division by the end of the week." Mazuri gave a sigh.

He looked at the three others. "So, remind me why we're doing this instead of going out drinking again?"

He was talking about the papers arranged all across the table. Dac was sorting through them, while the officer sitting next to him played around with a small random number generator.

"That's all we do in Athens, isn't it? God, I don't know how the locals or the flight instructors do it, but if I spend another night drinking, I'm going to literally be sick, everywhere. My mother said drinking every day was no way to live, apparently she was right," he complained.

"Forget I asked," Mazuri mumbled, taking one of his papers.

"You could drink," he pointed out. "I'm not your mother."

"Sure but…come on, is there anything sadder than drinking alone?"

"Apparently even a notorious player like you has limits," Dac mumbled as Mazuri dismissed him with a grunt.

"Come on, guys, we didn't drag you to LeConte Hall to hear you complain about certification. We dragged you here to hear you complain about a role-playing game. Now set up."

They shuffled their papers about a bit more, helped themselves to more soda pop from a crate on the floor of the classroom, then tried to continue their game.

"Who's turn was it again?"

"Mine, I think," Dac said, shuffling through his stack of papers, looking for one.

Mazuri leaned back on his plastic chair, checking his wristwatch. "So this is better than chess?"

"I hate chess," another officer said.

"You hate chess, and call yourself an OZ officer?"

"Sorry, found it!" Dac unfolded a piece of paper, ran his hand along it, and then reached for the random number generator when his mobile went off, buzzing very loudly.

"I'm sorry about this," he immediately apologized, taking out his mobile. "This is Pilot Officer Bishop."

The others in the room made no effort to hide the fact that they were listening in on his conversation. "Really? I passed? That's…that's great! Am I still in time for reassignment to the Seventh Division? Thank you so much! Thank you!"

He pocketed his mobile, grinning ear to ear at the other officers. "Well? Don't keep us in suspense!" the narrator asked sarcastically.

"I passed the shuttle piloting course! So hah! And I'll see you losers later!"

Practically knocking over his chair, Dac darted out of the room, leaving Mazuri to take a can of pop and begin shaking it vigorously. In less than a minute, the door opened again and Dac leaned into the room.

"Mbeki, would you mind driving me to my dorm, and then to Epps?" he asked, just before Mazuri sprayed the contents of the can all over him.

**II**

On 2 August, Flight Lieutenant Oswald Walker was instructed to transport his mobile suit, which had just been overhauled, from Brussels to the Hammaguir Cosmodrome in Algeria, where the new 7th Strategic Aerospace Division was standing by for deployment. There, he would transfer it from the reduced 7th Order of the Red Banner Airborne Division to the 40th Canadian Victoria Cross Division, which was resupplying well out of its normal zone of operations.

Walker sat in the familiar cockpit of his OZ-07AMS 'Aries', still smelling of the factory refurbishment, holding his chin. The autopilot gave him a few hours alone with his thoughts, which he decided not to squander.

_Zechs is M.I.A., and now the situation in Outer Space looks like it's going to escalate. I suppose now is as good as any time to leave Earth. The alternative—staying with what's left of the old Seventh Airborne—sounds a lot worse when put that way. _

He heaved a sigh and adjusted his goggles. _There's no going back, in any case. _

It was late evening when he arrived at Hammaguir Cosmodrome, which seemed like the only escape from an Algerian summer. The installation, much smaller than Lake Baikal or other major sites, was lit up against the desert with massive torches and spotlights, so much that standing in the middle it felt like daytime.

His machine touched down at the shorter of the two runways at the supply aircraft airfield, next to a number of other Aries mobile suits in the same OZ livery. Disembarking and pulling up his goggles, he was greeted by a young noncommissioned officer already carrying baggage, probably not his own.

Walker shook a suitcase in front of him and shook his head.

The other gave a sigh of relief. "Let me thank you, sir. If I run into another F/L asking me to move his _tuba _or something, I was going to do something unprofessional."

The NCO-porter ran off, leaving Walker to nod oddly as he spotted another Mobile Suit Troops officer.

"Are you William O'Brien?"

A young F/O nodded. "Can I help you, Lieutenant?"

"Flight Lieutenant Walker, reporting to for transfer to the new Seventh Division, Space Forces Mobile Suit Troops. Accordingly, I'm delivering my vehicle to the Fortieth Victoria Cross Airborne."

O'Brien, who was holding a bulky military radio in one hand, set it down and took a clipboard from a nearby folding table, scribbling with an attached pen.

"I acknowledge your delivery to the Fortieth Division, Lieutenant."

O'Brien handed him the clipboard, which Walker took and signed quickly. Returning the clipboard, he shook O'Brien's hand.

"It's in great shape, sir."

"It should be, I haven't flown in combat since the end of the Xinjiang Campaign." Walker stared up at the 17-meter-tall war machine.

"I'm going to miss it," he admitted wistfully. "I spent most of my career in an Aries."

"Me too, sir."

"Use it in good health, O'Brien." He took another look up at the black-and-grey machine. _I've used these machines for five years now, but if I think about it, I couldn't say exactly how I came this to this point, could I? _

O'Brien looked over at hi, then back at the mobile suit.

_Zechs, Noin, Treize, Une. No, not at all. _

**III**

Even without the 40th Division, the Continental American Air Army, which represented the bulk of OZ's fighting forces in in the Rocky Mountains, was still a force to be reckoned with, claiming number of high-strength airborne divisions along with several specialized battalions. It was headquartered at Wentworth AFB, a massive air field outside the city of Fort Worth. It was there where the mobile armor OZ had captured intact in Colorado was transported for analysis.

"_So, let me get this straight: you've had the machine, designated EA-00MA, for more than a week now and you haven't actually operated it_?" The question was posed by Lieutenant Colonel Brooks, in an encrypted transmission to the officer in charge.

"Please understand, Colonel, we've held off on dismantling it for just that reason. But this was a massive mobile weapon intended for specialized, even strategic use. You can't just pop the hatch open and run off in it."

"_Make it work, Officer._"

"Yes sir!" Brooks' transmission ended and the F/O exhaled deeply, before glancing back at EA-00MA. "I guess I couldn't just tell him the obvious: that if the Alliance ever designed a machine independently of OZ, we couldn't simply bend it to our will."

The officer leaned over the railing around the machine pit where the mobile armor sat, curious engineers prying away at it. He gave a sigh and threw his hands up into the air. "It's probably worthless anyway!"

At the other end of transmission, Lieutenant Colonel Brooks sat in the Brussels International Guesthouse, in the same neighborhood as the Royal Castle of Laken, residence of the Belgian Monarchy, which Brooks could see through the window on the second floor window.

_Just as the Royal Castle served its purpose as the home to the kings and queens of Belgium, the newer, more modest International Guesthouse served the Romefeller Foundation. For our benefit, it also serves as a more civilized residence for soldiers of OZ._ Brooks much preferred it to the barracks, as any sensible officer would.

"So what do you make of this?" Lieutenant Colonel Sedici asked, his scarlet dress coat hanging from a nearby baroque chair. He held a tablet computer with the technical data from EA-00MA on its screen.

"It's fascinating stuff, certainly," Brooks replied. "Even with our assured victory over the Alliance, it's entirely possibly we severely misjudged the old order's dependence on OZ."

Brooks glanced at him. "I'm sorry, did you mean the machine, or Zechs Merquise?"

Sedici gave a friendly laugh and tossed the tablet onto the nearby tea table. "It's true for either of them, isn't it?"

"It looks that way." Brooks sat down opposite of Sedici. "I suppose with the deployment of the Seventh Division, you'll be anxious to return to the Marius Plant."

"That I will," he replied, relaxing on the couch.

"Spoken like a real Lunarian," Brooks mumbled, resting his arms on his knees. "I will never understand how you can tolerate factory life."

"Well, it beats the battlefield," Sedici offered. Brooks couldn't tell if he was being sincere, but didn't press the matter.

**IV**

Later that same night, Walker stood in front of a mirror in a dimly lit washroom at the main office at Hammaguir, fixing his new uniform which was largely indistinguishable from his old one except for the exchange of the small Earth Forces insignia for that of the Space Forces. He was having some trouble fixing the Eurasian Armed Forces medal he'd received so that it stood straight on its red-and-white ribbon.

"See, this is why I don't wear medals," he mumbled to his own reflection in the mirror.

"Hey, comrade, you better hurry up, the assembly's about to begin," a voice warned as someone leaned into the washroom. "Whatever it is…Walker?"

He turned in the direction of the voice. "Dmitry?"

Dmitry Alexandrovich Chernenko, with his trademark smile, broad scar, and a cap with the armored knight insignia of OZ Space Forces, leaned at him. He stared for him for a few seconds, as if to confirm it was in fact him in the darkness.

"Oswald Walker, it is you!" The Ukrainian strolled up to him and struck him on the shoulder. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised."

"Likewise," Walker mumbled, still fidgeting with the medal. "I still haven't seen the rest of my flight, but it's good to see you."

"Here, let me," Chernenko interjected, taking the medal. He wore the same decoration, awarded for the same campaign in Xinjiang, around his maroon-and-gold collar. "There's a trick to the Order of the Red Banner."

Walker nodded. "Which is?"

"There we go," he told him, fixing his collar and patting him on the epaulet. "Looking sharp, now let's go."

Turning away, he spotted Walker in the washroom mirror before turning back to him.

"Something wrong?"

Walker looked back at him. "Is it that obvious?"

Chernenko rubbed his face, a nail against his scar. "In all the years I've known you…you've never been one to…despair."

"Despair?" Walker asked, sounding alarmed.

"_Chort zabīraĭ!_" he admitted in an embarrassed tone, looking away. "I knew that wasn't a good word for it."

Heaving a sigh, he held himself on the nearest sink, shaking his head. "I meant…with what happened to Zechs, where we've come, where we're going…" he began, trailing off again.

Walker stared at Chernenko, with his head bobbing from side to side nervously, and cleared his throat. "So, Dmitry…what was it?"

Chernenko looked back at him. "What was what?"

"The trick, from earlier."

Chernenko stood up from the sink, looking more than a little relieved "The trick? Oh, the trick is you can't be a nerd from engineering." He gave him a big, scarred smile. "Now come on, let's go."

In the main hall in the front of the building, the 7th Strategic Aerospace Division's lieutenant colonel stood before them, larger than life, flanked by two OZ Space Forces banners. He was prepared to address the pilots and crews of a dozen squadrons and a number of supply, intelligence and communications battalions.

"_Adriti! _That is what I call you men and women! You are the daring ones, the best pilots from the Seventh, Nineteenth and Twenty-Third Divisions. Your daring is now needed in space, where you will fight in the greatest conflict of the human species…"

While the lieutenant colonel gave his speech, F/O Kaneshiro glanced over her shoulder at the flight lieutenants and other senior officer standing in the back two rows before looking forward again. Next to her, the much shorter Bishop stood, and just past him stood the slightly taller Mazuri.

The speech went for a few minutes, the colonel making dramatic, forceful gestures as he spoke. His adjutant dismissed them the whole assembly and they all dispersed, Walker's subordinates located their commanding officer.

"Everyone, it's good to see each other again," he told them dutifully, shaking everyone's hands rapidly.

"It wouldn't be Squadron One of First Company without us," Kanna told him. Dac stared at her blankly. "That's our unit, smart guy."

She turned to Walker. "Did you hear? Davy-boy didn't pass his space MS certification. He's going to be our shuttle pilot instead."

"Well, that's very convenient."

"Please don't call me that," Dac mumbled softly.

"In light of everything, Dac, I'm glad to hear this. At best you were going to be our reserve pilot anyway, and it'll be good to know there's someone in the carrier vehicle we can trust."

"Thank you, Walker," Dac replied, shooting a look at Kanna. "Walker, are you all right?"

"Why, is there something wrong with me?" he asked, adjusting his goggles on his cap and straightening his collar.

Dac cocked his head and was about to answer when Kanna slapped his back with enough force to cause him to jump. "So wants to see the H.L.V.s?"

In actuality, neither Mazuri nor Dac were that interested in the heavy lift vehicles, but they went to see them anyway. They were just in time to see the last of the black mobile suits be loaded aboard, five to each H.L.V., alongside other cargo bound for MO-II, OZ's staging ground for Outer Space.

"So we're not taking these up?" Dac asked.

"No, though I can see why you might think that. The mobile suits go to MO-II, while personnel go to Luna. Then our individual carriers will rendezvous with _Barge _or whatever ship or colony each squadron is stationed on."

"Cool," Mazuri said. Dac gave a sigh of relief.

"You were worried?" Kanna asked.

"I know it's going to sound stupid, but I wasn't looking forward to sitting on a hundred tons of solid rocket booster and nuclear engines just to get into Outer Space."

Kanna, Walker, and Mazuri simultaneously made understanding-sounding but otherwise meaningless chatter in response, as Dac rolled his eyes and leaned over the guardrails of the catwalk overlooking the H.L.V. launch site.

"Save your sarcastic sympathy," he growled back.

"This will be your first time in space, isn't it, Dac?"

By this point, Dac's waist was resting on the guardrail and he was holding his head in his arms. "Yes. My sister and I were supposed to go as children to visit some colony or another, but I got the flu at the last moment and missed the trip."

"If it makes you feel better, I've never been in space either," Mazuri assured him. "I spent my 'holiday' running high-altitude interceptions over the Arctic out of Monino. In a Leo."

He turned around and rested his elbows against the guardrail. "I thought free-fall interceptions, along with zero-g training, might be the best preparation for actual space combat."

Kanna laughed at the two. "Wow, what a bummer for you two! I keep forgetting that me the F/L are the only two who've actually fought in space."

"Lieutenant Walker?"

"Combat engineers out of _Barge_," Walker explained. "A few years back, I pulled a shift with the Thirty-Seventh Engineers Battalion. The Alliance's 'policing action' was complicated, blockades always are. Double-pay for any OZ-certified engineers."

"Why'd you leave?" Dac asked.

"It wasn't permanent, and it wasn't easy work either. After a few weeks out I was spent and rotated out like all the other_ Speciali_. And I had a tough commanding officer."

"Who?"

Walker thought about it. "Clarkson was his name, if I remember. He's probably back in space."

"Well, if he is, you'll see him when you get there."

The four of them turned to see Chernenko approaching jauntily, leading the two flight officers and the P/O to salute him. He had some interesting information to share.

"Inaugural ball, _sir_?" Kanna asked, raising an eyebrow.

"It's the one big function in Outer Space that we soldiers actually get to attend. One part publicity mission, one part reward for our valiance in coming up here to help the colonials." Chernenko cocked his head. "I'm sure Mr. Mazuri and Mr. Bishop are looking forward to it."

"Yes sir, we are, sir."

Chernenko gave a nod—not the usual nod, but the sort of nod a ranking officer was expecting to give his subordinates every so often—and rested his white gloves on the guardrail.

"Officers of the Military Commissariat will be there too," he pointed out softly as a last Taurus was loaded on the nearest H.L.V. and the conveyor belt pulled back and the massive door.

After a minute of silence, Kanna leaned in his direction. "And so what?"

Chernenko gave a half-snort, half-chuckle. "You might not realize, Ms. Kaneshiro, but your commander has some history with the Commissariat."

**V**

When they needed to be, OZ could be particularly efficient. Barely a few hours after the speech, all of the 7th Division's personnel—several thousand men and women—were loaded up onto large transorbital shuttles or the H.L.V. themselves and preparing for launch.

Shuffling through the aisles to his seat, Walker had to make his past a number of flight lieutenants trying to stow their instrument cases—this was not the first time he'd seen a number of officers carrying oboes, clarinets and bassoons—before sitting down next to a flight officer who was cleaning his glasses with a soft cloth.

Walker acknowledged him with a quick nod before buckling his seatbelt. A thought occurred to him and he turned back to him. "Sernan, isn't it?"

The officer replaced his glasses and turned to him—he had thin features and a tall but short nose and a military haircut. "Yes sir! Sorry, sir, but you are?"

"Walker. I think we met in Nairobi, right before 'Daybreak'."

Sernan visibly searched his mind. "Yes, I remember that!" He extended his hand, which Walker shook. "Flight Lieutenant Walker, was it?"

"Flight Officer Sernan," Walker nodded.

"Actually, it's just Lieutenant Lon Sernan, of the Engineering Battalion," he admitted. "Same rank, different job title."

He sighed. "Just as well, I was a middling pilot."

"There are worse things than a middling pilot," Walker offered helpfully.

"Perhaps not, sir. Better to be a good engineer than a middling soldier. Hell's full of middling soldiers," Sernan lamented. Walker thought this was actually quite witty and chuckled at his remark, as their shuttle began to move into takeoff position.

A few thousand kilometers to the east, deep in the Indian Ocean, a elderly "entrepreneur" by the name of Mike Howard sat in main office aboard one of the fleet of vessels that made up the naval salvaging company he'd operated for almost twenty years. He'd left his oceanic headquarters on one of his larger salvaging ships, heading west to an island chain off Madagascar.

With slowly, easy movements he changed the screen on his computer, originally a desktop wallpaper with the slick—at least in his mind—corporate logo of his commercial venture, the Sweeper Group. Blinking his tired eyes, he stared at the short message delivered to him to him not long ago.

**Lightning strikes at Reunion. **

As it happened, it wasn't nearly as cryptic as he might have otherwise seemed: Reunion referred to the island of Réunion, a French overseas possession near Madagascar. And it was the Lightning Count, Zechs Merquise, whose mobile suit had washed up on its beaches, as their recon seaplane that had gotten their first had confirmed. What Howard still didn't know was where the message had come from, though the nearest his computer "guy" could discern it originated somewhere in the OZ military network—understandable, since news of the battle had not yet been revealed.

He expected that, in a few hours, OZ would make an announcement concerning Zechs and the evidence of a rather epic battle, considering, as far as Howard could tell, only involved one mobile suit from OZ. While he was able to discern the rough details of the battle himself, the computer guy had told him something else that mildly worried him.

_"If it did come out of OZ's military network, you can be sure that OZ is aware of it._"

As Howard was pondering this particular issue, the Military Commissariat in the heart of OZ's European military districts for was putting the last touches on the rather sparse acknowledgement. This issue: the passing of one of its highest officers, the first lieutenant colonel to be a casualty of the May Revolutions.

**Count Zechs Merquise, formerly Lieutenant Colonel of the OZ Terrestrial Mobile Suit Troops, has been listed as missing in action and likely killed, following a battle with ex-Alliance ships and mobile suits in the Indian Ocean.**

Sitting in her office, alone, Dr. Eva Cebotari stared at short sentence on the monitor of her notebook computer. There were two officers on the other side of the door, two noisy, unhappy soldiers acting like they owned the place, Flight Officer Bonati and Squadron Commander Albert Broden.

Eva saw F/O Bonati as a curiosity. He was not a particularly proficient officer—he was older than thirty, promoted from a noncommissioned officer in the Alliance Army Mobile Suit Troops. Though he was certified in both, he was not a particularly proficient as either a Leo or an Aries pilot. _Obviously, at his age, he's not going to be a Zechs Merquise or a Soris Armonia. But nor is he an Albert Broden. He isn't even an Oswald Walker or Lucrezia Noin, with their decent skills and their tenacious ability to survive what should have been near-impossible situations._

Bonati was a modest pilot, with modest capabilities. _And yet Treize keeps him and others like him around. Why? _Maybe this was would shed some light on it.

She tapped a key, ejecting a tiny plastic diskette from her computer, small enough to conceal in the center of her palm. Running a hand through her hair, she put on her most uninterested face, opened the door and stepped through. In the bullpen, both Broden and Bonati were busy accessing a desktop computer, awkwardly punching in commands on the keyboard.

She'd been too quiet, so she made herself known. "My, my, my. My day is just filling up with all sorts of unpleasant interruptions," she said, leaning against her open door, arms crossed.

Like his comrades, Bonati had a strong distrust for the Military Commissariat. "Who are you?" he asked sharply, only briefing looking up.

Broden looked longer. It was easy to make that mistake—while the two of them wore their full hunter greens, she'd traded her uniform a solid black, strapless dress and cut in the center down part of her chest, along with long opera gloves and high heel boos.

Despite this, neither looked pleased to see her. "Wait a minute, I know you. The political officer reporting to his Excellency." His _beard _twitched. "What are you up to now?"

With one eye hidden under her a long bang, she peered at him. "What are you talking about?"

"How about I call the boys downstairs and have you dragged out?" Officer Cadet Perez, in uniform, growled angrily from the other side of the bullpen, hand rapidly opening and closing over his mobile.

Eva chuckled, turned to face them and put a hand against her waist. "I think the one with the beard might want to provoke something."

"I don't mind ma'am," he insisted, putting his mobile up to his head.

Broden kept staring at her, as though memorizing her appearance, still looking rather unhappy. His hands very slowly pushed through some papers until they stopped on one that include a scanned photograph of herself. He looked down at it for a second.

"Cebotari. Eva Cebotari. I'll remember that name," Broden mumbled under his breath before glancing once more at the computer and shutting it off with the tip of his boot against the power button. Keeping his eyes on Eva, he backed out of the office, leaving Bonati behind.

"Flight Officer, catch," she ordered, tossing the diskette over to him as he caught it. "Would you supply that to the Communications Department? My office has some…problems." _Like the two MS troop morons ransacking it. _

Bonati caught it, still staring at her, before nodding and taking off, with no salute.

"What were they looking for?" Perez asked.

"Something on the computers."

"Like what?"

"Who cares? I have a reception on Luna to attend to." She waved an arm at him as she strolled out, heels clicking with her, and Perez saluted swiftly.

**VI**

Zechs Merquise woke up to the unfamiliar smell of diesel drums and the sight of an aluminum ceiling fan spinning over his head. Out of the corner of his saw a glint in the shadow of the dim room: the buckle of his military-issue belt and holster.

"So I'm alive," he said aloud. A fragment of time about four seconds of long played in his head: his mobile suit plummeting to shoreline, a flicker of a paper note taped inside his cockpit, and smashing his fist against the large button between his knees.

_In case of danger, sir, push this. _For a fraction of a second, Walker's smiling, hawk-like features appeared in his mind before he returned to the inside of the dim room and the splitting headache he had, possibly from a concussion.

Near his belt, hanging on a chair, was his scarlet dress coat, dry but a little ragged, polished silver buttons shining from the light from the window. He ignored the blinking LED on the CCTV camera mounted in the opposite corner of the room, along with mumbling voices in the other room.

"Give me a damn minute!" someone shouted as the door opened, showering him with more light. A strange silhouette, strange not because it belonged to a middle-aged man, so much as his unusual choice in grooming and attire. It took Zechs a moment to realize it that he was bald but had combed-out grey hair, wore a baggy flower print shirt and sunglasses.

"You don't look so bad!" the funny-looking man told him. "You think you can stand?"

Zechs sat upright in bed silently. _I must be wearing his clothes. _

"We found you in a very _interesting _machine. We managed to recover it as well. You know, I never thought anyone would pilot Tallgeese. Except those kids maybe."

"Who are you?"

He turned around. "A long time ago, I was involved in its construction."

Zechs had not expected that. "So you built Tallgeese?"

The old man laughed, probably at the rather foolish way he'd phrased the question. "Well, I was _involved_. Howard, Michael Howard, since I already know who you are."

Zechs was less surprised by the fact that he was on an oceangoing platform, probably for light orbital launches judging by the size. Howard was unmistakably eager to show him something very specific and Zechs obliged. Stored beneath the main level, in an open maintenance pit where any recon aircraft or satellite could see it, was OZ-00MS 'Tallgeese', largely restored and now carrying different equipment.

"So why did you save me?"

"Well, it seems you've become OZ's enemy. Zechs Merquise, OZ's greatest hero, on the run. I guess there's no harm in us taking you in."

At that very moment, hundreds of thousands of kilometers above Earth, many of the officers Zechs had known—like Walker—were briefly absorbed in the sight of the cradle of humanity, Earth, from a parabolic orbit. For some, it was their first time seeing Earth that way—Zechs remembered his own experience, which, like so many, he owned to the military.

"Zechs Merquise is dead."

"That's what they're saying now," Howard said, pointing to a pocket computer on the tram they were driving: the screen was showing an online international news portal. He could see part of the headline past Howard's ugly shirt: **…listed as likely killed in action, following a battle with ex-Alliance…**

"The times are a-chagin', and I'd love to see another new era in my lifetime. Ah, here it is!"

The utility lift brought the tram down to the bottom of the maintenance pit, so that they were nearly standing in Tallgeese's shadow. "That's one fantastic machine. No wonder the Gundams are designed off it."

Zechs stared up at Tallgeese. "Those supplementary vernier rockets, are they for atmospheric clearance?"

"To be honest, I was ordered to use them to insure the Gundams got back into Outer Space. Speaking of which, do you think you could do that?" Mounted over Tallgeese's already large vernier engines were a pair of enormous but expendable multi-stage launch boosters, sleek, white and even more massive than Tallgeese itself.

"Go to Outer Space?"

"There's about to be a radical revolution up there. People with your unique skills will be very much in demand."

Zechs gave a relaxed sigh, something he felt he could do out of uniform. Of course, he had also deserted the military anyway. "Somehow, I'm not looking forward to it. How did you find me?"

"Well, that's kind of a strange story too…"

**VII**

OZ remained committed to its Outer Space initiative, directly targeting the Earth Sphere Alliance's military forces at the Lagrange Points. Even after the disastrous loss of _Barge_, now a symbol of OZ's stalwart position, those forces represented the bulk of the remaining Alliance military. They had only hardened their military rule over the colonies that remained in their territory.

By comparison, OZ remained careful not to infringe on the newfound liberties they had given to the colonies, while still increasing its military presence overall. Its face remained Lieutenant Colonel Une, Countess of Hanover. Une played a delicate game, not underestimating the political savvy of the colonial elite that had survived nearly two decades of martial law. As both the new de facto commander of Earth's military in space and OZ's official ambassador, she played a dual rule: commander-in-chief and peacemaker. OZ's space divisions were her greatest martial tools while her reputation was her greatest diplomatic tool.

Most of the Space Forces 7th Division's equipment arrived on Space Fortress _Barge_, as planned. Its personnel, however, was largely diverted to Luna's Marius City, the Moon's industrial heartland and a major population center. It was a longer trip, at about 400,000 kilometers away from Earth, multiple times the distance of _Barge's _orbit, but it was well within the capabilities of the shuttle group.

"This is…man, this is something," Bishop said, grinning from ear to ear. In the negligible gravity, he was able to amuse himself with folding cap, which he spun in front of him like a top. "Guys, you need to see this," he told his comrades, as he joined his spinning cap with a pen.

"_Akisamiyō!_" Kanna blurted out loudly as the shuttle began its slow, smooth retrograde burn, deorbiting into Marius City and causing Dac's playthings to fly forward. It was not the surface of the moon that surprised her—it looked exactly like the thousands of photographs and illustrations she'd seen as a child depicted it—but the Lunar cityscape stretched out underneath her.

Sitting next to her, Mazuri tried to pull her away from the window. "Let me see! Move!"

Forward of the officers' compartment, the senior officers watched grey craters pass underneath through the windows. F/O Tycho Nichol floated up through the aisle from the back to Walker's seat.

"I see the gravity hasn't gotten to you," he joked at him, grabbing a seat to stop.

Walker was bobbing a little in his seat, but otherwise unaffected. "Nichol, I thought I'd see you here soon."

"See that?" he said, pointing past Sernan out the window. "The sleek, white bird towards the bottom of the fleet?"

Walker squinted. "I believe so."

"That's Colonel Une's private shuttle."

"What, are they using this as another summit?"

Nichol shrugged, as the weak local gravity began to affect him as the shuttle slowed down. "She is the commander-in-chief. She can go where she pleases."

"Will we see the meet any militia pilots?" Sernan asked.

Nichol glanced at him. "Worried?" 'Militias' was the catch-all term for the colonial guard units that had already existed even during the Alliances' time, but were now being armed by OZ. A few did not need OZ's materiel, but the large majority did, otherwise limited to frigates and fighter craft.

"Yes, though not of them."

The numerous transorbital shuttles descended into a number of small hangars at the military spaceport far south of the Marius Crater itself, intended to service the massive foundries of the No. 13 Mobile Suit Factory. Not all of them were military; Walker counted at least three civilian shuttles that probably had some sort of governmental or commercial role either just arriving or preparing to depart

_One thing or another—perhaps the similarity in size—has tied Luna to Earth in a matter unlike the colonies. Thus, Luna was never placed under the same military rule, Artemis Sedici's failed revolt notwithstanding, and the Lunar government quickly aligned itself with OZ when the Alliance was forced to withdraw from here and _Barge. _Indeed, if it wasn't for the distances involved, Luna might better serve as OZ's seat of power in space than the fortress. _

As Walker disembarked and buckled on his spotless white cape, he could see the signs of that transition all around him: emblems of the UESA Space Forces, inlaid in marble walls, sometimes hidden only by OZ's blue-and-yellow banners. There weren't enough of them.

"So this is Marius City?" he heard Chernenko ask nearby. "Not much to look at from the inside."

"Come on, Lieutenant, this is one of the oldest cities on Luna," Sernan told him. "Founded before the Alliance, though back then, it was home to the civic offices and the Lunar Archives."

"My God!" a passing F/L declared. "What is it about you engineers and your explanations?" he smirked, eliciting a laugh from Chernenko as they passed Sernan.

"Sirs, did none of you read the in-flight magazine?" Sernan shouted defensively, which only caused more laughter. Amid the laughing, Walker heard a faint _click_ accompanied by what seemed like a rather weak flash, like that in a cheap camera. He immediately spun in the direction, rather inelegantly, in time to see a body of well-dressed civilians passing by on their way to their transport.. Except for a rather tall woman among them_—_so far, Lunarians seemed like a short bunch_—_there was nothing strange about them. _Must just be a coincidence. _

As Walker stood there, still looking confused, a Lunar official was shouting at everyone who disembarked. "Your attentions, sirs, we've got marked trams to bring you into Marius City. The ceremony will be in the Old Opera House's ballroom, you'll find your table assignments there. Please don't wander off, it's easy to get lost in Downtown Marius!"

"This isn't a tram, it's a bus," Dac pointed out as they filed in line towards the nearest vehicle, which except for its roof wasn't that distinguishable from electric passenger trams you'd find on cities all over Earth.

"So?"

He looked back at Kanna. "So why not call it a bus?"

"Frankly, I was hoping for a limousine," Mazuri admitted before climbing on before them.

"That's exactly what OZ needs, a hundred limousines blocking up every street in the biggest city on Luna," Kanna mumbled, following Mazuri. Dac followed immediately. A few vehicles away, Walker climbed into a government sedan along with four other flight lieutenants. The Lunarian chauffeur in a preppy black uniform donned his hat and climbed in after them, smiling.

"Where to, soldiers?" he joked putting the vehicle in drive.

Walker politely sat between two other lieutenants, hands in his laps. The older officer sitting to his left was less cheerful. "Spare us the false brevity, we're late for a party for exactly that purpose."

The much younger lieutenant laughed, then looked at Walker. "Cage," he told him, introducing himself and the other.

"Walker." He stared at the other man for a minute. "You were attached to Colonel Zechs, weren't you?"

"Yes, and you?" Cage said in a more friendly tone.

"Some time ago."

The limousines and trams arrived at Marius City's Old Operahouse at the same time, a large 'building' with a classical façade in the city center, with three major arteries converging in front of it. Like all the other buildings, it was well beneath Luna's actual surface. There was a decent media appearance, though it was not necessarily crowded. Another Lunar official was there to guide them further into the structure.

F/L Cage adjusted his cap as the three made their way through the main entrance and down the grand staircase—fitting with the rest of the city, the Grand Operahouse was built downwards as well as upwards—to the larger levels. The staircase itself was done in the English William & Mary architectural style and four levels down, at the bottom, the floor was filled with hunter green uniforms.

"It's been a while since my last _real _military party," Cage observed as they descended. "Funny, right?"

"I suppose so," Walker admitted.

"At least things seem peaceful here. Maybe Outer Space isn't as bad as they've led on."

Walker didn't respond. There was a table near the entrance of the ballroom covered with Lunar newspapers, eight stacks in a line. And while he couldn't make out the text, he noticed the same picture on every one: a dark-haired Alliance Space Forces general in full uniform. He'd seen the general before, part of a certain video broadcast from Colony L1-D-120. The chanting audio was still fresh in his mind._"Dio salvi l'Alleanza! Dio salvi l'Alleanza! Dio salvi l'Alleanza!"_

"It is quite peaceful," he mumbled as the chanting echoed in his head.

**VIII**

While the officers took their seats in the main ballroom, Ambassador Une escorted a small civilian party—including Marius City's mayor and metropolitan police commander, a mid-level official of the Romefeller Foundation, a spacecraft designer from independent MO-V whom was working with OZ and a representative of the Yuy Foundation. The guest of honor, however, was the Governor-General of Luna, Sir Edmund Wavell. The head of Earth's administration over the Moon had traded his UESA Space Forces Brigadier General's uniform for a pinstriped tuxedo bedecked in medals under a dark blue sash bearing the white insignia of the Lunar government. With her usual warmth, Une personally introduced them to a few titled officers in OZ who were particularly noteworthy.

"May I present the Baroness of Oviedo, Lady Soris, and her younger sister, Chevalière Luna. I'm sure you know them both by reputation."

"Indeed we do, I was very much looking forward to the colonials among OZ's veterans," Wavell announced, shaking both women's hands excitedly.

"It's a pleasure, Sir Edmund," Soris said, speaking for both of them. Luna stood silently, as usual.

"And this is Dr. Eva Cebotari, from the Military Commissariat. She's been ordered by her department to establish an office for the Space Forces, overseeing recruitment and legal procedure."

"It's a pleasure, Sir Edmund," she told him in a low, sultry voice, and offering her gloved hand. She'd immediately gotten notice as the one officer in the line that, like Une, was not in uniform.

All smiles, the governor-general took her hand and kissed it politely.

"And this is my assistant, Mr. Tycho Nichol," Une said finally.

Nichol shook their hands. "It's an honor, sirs."

The inauguration for the 7th Division was like any other even of its kind—half festivities, half obligations—as the officers shifted about and old acquaintances caught up, assuming they hadn't already during the shuttle ride from Earth.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, ma'am?"

An agitated, even exasperated F/L Ogasawara Emi looked down, literally rather than figuratively, at a cheerful F/O Aretha Walker. Aretha was her escort, since it was only her second time on Luna and her unit wasn't invited inauguration.

"That's fine, thanks."

"Are you sure?" she asked, standing between her and F/L Clarkson, whose mustache bristled at her helpfulness. He had not happily accompanied Emi.

"Yes, it's fine, thank you!" Emi snapped, her voice starting to rise in volume.

Clarkson adjusted his white gloves as Aretha vanished into the crowd of officers, scanning the area around him. "So, why are we here again?"

"To be comradely and welcome the new pilots," she told him quickly, her own eyes darting about.

He looked at the much younger lieutenant. "Really?"

"Yes really." She literally pushed him towards the crowd and shot off in a different direction. "Be pleasant and sociable, would you?"

Clarkson watched her take off and held his arms apart, palms open, before drifting in the direction of the open bar.

As the 'party' continued, Walker stood near the bar, watching people help themselves to alcohol to pass the time and loosen up.

"Negroni straight up, and for the lieutenant colonel…an Americano on the rocks?"

Looking over his shoulder, he saw another flight lieutenant next to a lieutenant colonel in his scarlet dress coat and black cape. The lieutenant colonel, an older officer with a strong jaw, black hair and long sideburns, shook his head.

"Straight up then," the F/L said before leaning on the counter to wait. He noticed Walker glancing at him and smiled.

"You must be one of the honored guests," he told him in a friendly tone. "Flight Lieutenant Andretti, 5th Lunar Guard Division. And this is Lieutenant Colonel Sedici, commander of the Lunar Military District."

Walker looked at the class of ice water he was holding in his right hand and set it down before shaking gloves with Andretti. "Flight Lieutenant Walker, 7th Strategic Aerospace Division, as you already know."

He turned to Sedici and shook his hand. "It's an honor, Lieutenant Colonel."

"Walker," Sedici replied calmly. _Where have I heard that name before?_

The bartender delivered the two cocktails while Walker returned to his glass of water. Andretti gestured about with his free hand. "Present company excluded, you have to admit, the types OZ is sending up to Outer Space are only getting stranger and stranger."

"Really?" Walker asked carefully.

"I've been stationed on Luna continuously for…thirty months now," Andretti explained. He pointed to his left with the hand holding his cocktail. "Look at the lieutenant and two flight officers over there. What're air force officers doing on Luna?"

There were three officers sitting at a table nearby in their hunter greens, but with their collars and sleeves colored sky blue rather than maroon—the color of the Earth Army's Air Forces. Walker pondered the question seriously. "Probably to train fighter-bomber crews, if I had to guess. The colonials used to rely a lot on those."

"Huh. Sailors from the navy for cruisers, pilots from the air force for bombers. What a bunch," Andretti mumbled. Walker could tell from his tone of voice that it was a sufficiently convincing answer.

"Outer Space seems to take all kinds," Walker told him, perhaps a little too sincerely. Andretti smirked and pointed at him, sloshing his glass around.

"So it does, Walker, so it does." He took a deep gulp from his cocktail and hissed. "Ah. Speaking of all kinds…"

He pointed in a different direction, towards the center of the ball room. Surrounded by an entourage of dignitaries and a few officers, Ambassador Une was very slowly making her way towards the front of the room while participating in a conversation with her adjutant Nichol and two upper-class civilian officials. It was immediate apparent that Une was having minimal participation, and the conversation was mostly between Nichol and the male official, while the female official took the occasional sip from her glass of white wine.

"There is life for the Leo yet," the official explained confidently. "On Earth, and now in space with the Colonial militias. OZ jumped the gun by diverting production."

"Well, I'll give you Outer Space," Nichol conceded. "But on Earth? Really? Where, exactly?"

The official, clad in the finery of the Romefeller Foundation, gestured animatedly with his champagne glass. "Before you say it, yes, the catastrophic defeat of the Alliance Mobile Suit Troops hardly boosted the reputation, but the Leo has some life in it yet. Your beloved Aries cannot handle every mission, surely the Ambassador agrees with me," he said, glancing at Une. Une simply smiled back at him, looking just a bit amused.

"Please, your Lordship, don't try and play that card. We've _all _used the Leo," Nichol explained. "We're all familiar with the hardware. But the Alliance has passed, and so has its preferred mobile suit."

"They look like they're having fun, aren't they?" Andretti asked as all three of them eavesdropped on the animated conversation, making out the rough details.

"I don't think Nichol would pass on a chance to let an official of the Romfeller Foundation know what's on his mind," Walker said, smiling.

"Well, he is Une's deputy," Andretti admitted. Sedici nodded quietly while finishing his Americano. "I just feel sorry for the ladies."

Nichol and the Foundation official continued their conversation, unconcerned with their surroundings.

"Listen, you must appreciate that airborne operations are only becoming more prevalent on Earth, aren't they? You'll need more airborne divisions!"

"What does that have to do with our Leo inventories?"

"Everything! Think Kaohsiung-style airborne divisions."

Nichol sighed and adjusted his maroon cape. "Forgive me, I'm a bit short on my history. Kaohsiung Airborne?"

"Kaohsiung, 'Seventy-Six. The first combat deployment of a Leo battalion by means of airdrop, almost immediately after the opening shots of the Taiwanese Civil War. Even if the war still ended the Republic of China, it did demonstrate the effectiveness of Airborne Leo units. This was years before the Aries appeared."

Une was actually listening closely. She had studied it as a student—the year she was born, the densely populated isle of Taiwan turned on itself after a generation of failed arbitration from the Alliance. The Alliance was much better at military than political solutions, and seeing the South's strategic edge over the North, launched a single operation to knock Kaohsiung out of the war in a single decisive blow. It did exactly that, forcing both North and South back to the negotiating table. Despite favoring Taipei in the North, the UESA Pacific Command promptly returned to its usual stupidity: it ordered an island-wide election between the opposing parties, and promised that, unlike Saigon's sabotage of the Vietnamese elections centuries ago, it would tolerate no deviation. Taiwanese outnumbered Chinese ten to one and the electorate voted along ethnic lines. With that, the centuries old Alliance-favored Republic of China promptly ceased to exist, and the whole island, from Keelung to Pingtung, became the Republic of Taiwan.

Before the end of the decade, Taiwan joined the United Republic of China in order to access Earth Sphere's largest common market. To an outsider, it all appeared rather pointless, but it did demonstrate the tactical possibilities of air-insertion Leo troops.

"Mark my words, ladies and gentlemen," the official continued. "You will need more and more of those very airdrops if you want your decisive victory against the Alliance, especially before the end of this year. And the longer you delay, the more you will need Leos pounding the ground. Thinks haven't changed that much since my time in the military."

Nichol looked unconvinced. Une looked vaguely interested. The other dignitary, a woman just a few years older than Une, looked extremely bored. Her wine glass empty, she gave a soft sigh and looked up at the stage with her right eye—her left eye remained permanently closed. "Lady Une, won't you be giving your speech soon?"

"Oh yes, of course, thank you Ms. Yuy!" Ambassador Une replied, in her trademark happy, bubbly manner. "Please excuse me, sirs."

As soon as Une departed, Shalua Yuy smoothed a crease in her long orange dress before immediately strolling off, leaving Nichol and the Foundation official to continue their little debate. Within seconds, Emi emerged from a crowd of hunter green uniforms, pushing her white leather cape over her shoulder and immediately stood close to Yuy, who'd extended her hand.

"Flight Lieutenant Ogasawara, I presume?" Yuy whispered as Emi took her hand and kissed her gloved knuckles. "I apologize for not speaking to you sooner."

Emi released her hand and her eyes resumed darting around. "We need to talk, ma'am."

Walker was still watching Emi and Yuy when a round of applause came from the crowd and he spun around. Standing on stage, in front of the military band, was Une, smiling so hard Walker imagined it probably took some concentration to maintain it. The 7th Division continued clapping politely for a few more seconds before Une spoke.

"Thank you, all of you, so much," she began, her voice relayed over speakers. "I'm so happy to welcome the pilots and officers of the Seventh Strategic Aerospace Division to Outer Space."

Walker, who had been left holding Sedici and Andretti's glasses, hurriedly gave them to a waiter before taking his place among the other mid-level officers. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Eva, slowly turning a glass.

Dac stood next to Mazuri, finishing his glass before rolling it across the nearby table.

"So this is Ambassador Une?" he whispered to his friend as the speech continued.

"I'm surprised too," Mazuri admitted.

"I don't see it."

He took off his own spectacles, wiping them on his uniform before replacing them. "You'd be surprised the difference a uniform, a hairstyle and a pair of glasses can make."

"Must be a sister," Dac mumbled insistently.

"…we still have much work to be done here, in Outer Space. We know what our duty is, and I can see in all of you the true, correct demeanor of a soldier. I believe there is no one better prepared than the OZ Space Forces to bring peace to the colonies."

There was a general applause.

"And now, I present the commander-in-chief of the Order of the Zodiac, His Excellency, Treize Khushrenada."

More applause, as the lights on the stage dimmed. The ceiling-mounted projector cast glowing lines near Une, which consolidated to eventually form a detailed faux-3D image of Treize Khushrenada, in his trademark dress uniform, hand on his hip. The ballroom was deadly silent, except for the whispers of a few curious civilians.

"_I congratulate you, the soldiers of the Order. Having risen to every challenge on Earth, you have crossed the stars to further your cause._" He paused briefly, putting his hands behind his back. "_And what cause is that? It is not just the cause of peace or justice or righteousness, though we naturally long for those. No, it is the purpose of the carrying on history. Of ensuring this world meets its destiny in due time, instead of writhing in the misery of the status quo._"

From dramatic flair, he took a few steps around, the hologram moving with him. "_It is too easy to allow ourselves to sit on our laurels, satisfied with our victories…_"

Treize's speech continued, slow and steady, while the audience listened in silence. Walker stood near the bar, hands behind his back, following his Excellency's every word. Not far from him, Emi adjusted her well-starched collar.

"No mention of the Gundams," Yuy whispered softly.

"Apparently not," Emi whispered back, even softer.

"…_That cause is the continued justification of your existence, of OZ's existence. For without that purpose, there is no reason for us. For this costly, devastating war, and for our continued struggle against the old Order. But with that purpose, we are blessed with one of the greatest gifts of all, the gift of focus. For there is nothing more beautiful in this world than a human, than a warrior, free of distractions. It is the closest thing in our world to God._" He reached out of the holograms field and produced a champagne glass. "_To the glory of the Order._"

Throughout the ball, officers, pilots and soldiers raised their glasses. Lady Soris stood next to her younger sister, near the stage, glasses in hand, a smile on her face.

"For the order!" a few hundred voices called in unison.

Treize smiled abruptly, almost alarmingly. "_In the meantime, men and women of the Seventh Division, please enjoy this well-deserved ball. Good evening comrades and the victor go the spoils._"

There was a chuckle through the auditorium as the hologram vanished and the lights returned, a feeling of easiness descended on the crowd. In the middle, Kanna joined the chorus of clinking glasses, toasting the evening with Dac and Mazuri as the drinking resumed.

"Here's to you, Flight Officer Kaneshiro," Mazuri chimed in.

"And you, Ajay," she responded in kind.

As the two sipped, Dac quickly finished his champagne and gave a loud hoot, rasping from the alcohol. "Whoa!" he yelled out. "That burned!"

The two laughed hysterically at him.

"A pretty good speech," Andretti told Walker after finishing his second glass of Dom Pérignon.

"I thought so too," Walker told him in kind after turning to face him.

"Though the question is: if it wasn't, would we know?" the Italian F/L told him. Walker didn't respond, and was thankfully saved by a pat on the back. He turned around again to see the smiling face of Lieutenant Colonel Armonia.

"Lady Soris! Dame Luna!"

Almost too fast, Luna saluted him and he quickly switched hands with his glass and saluted back.

"_Sir _Oswald," Soris replied, clearly amused. "You two've met?"

"No ma'am," Walker said. "I just read the dossiers."

Soris laughed at that too. "Well, Lieutenant Walker, this is my younger sister, Flight Officer Luna Armonia," she introduced in her usual sunny manner.

"A pleasure sir," Luna said, very quickly and very quietly, before sticking out her hand mechanically. Walker shook it as quickly as he could manage.

"So you're posted to the Seventh Division?"

"Yes ma'am, lead squadron," Walker replied, watching Luna stare blankly past him out of the corner of his eye. It almost disturbed him a little.

"They should have at least one technical mind around those atomic weapons," Soris gloated. "Luna and I've been juggled around the fleet, but I'm sure we'll be seeing more of you and the Seventh."

The two left as promptly as they'd appeared, leaving Walker to slowly make his way through his first glass. Watching them depart, his eyes surveyed the crowd and stopped abruptly again. _Oh, wonderful, her. _

There was no mistaking her: strapless black dress and black gloves aside, it was Major Cebotari. Chernenko had been right—contrary to what reason told him, here she was, instead of sitting in Luxembourg, far, far away.

_I'm very close to saying something rude. _

"Hey, _Taichō_!" The huge figure of Kanna moved towards him, all grins.

_Wonderful timing. _"Kanna, welcome to Luna!"

"I can't believe how long it took to find you," she said with a laugh as he very slowly hid behind her. "You know I had a gift for you?"

"A gift?"

"Well, nothing fancy," she said with a laugh, arching her head back. "I mean, it's funny, I think you'll like it."

"Well, I don't get many gifts," Walker assured her. "However, I need to get going, could you please give the boys my regards?"

"S…Sure," Kanna replied, looking a little confused. Walker tapped his goggles atop his cap in that way he did, before heading for the nearest exit. "See you at the after party, F/L!" she called out after him.

Putting her hands on her hips, she watched him awkwardly make his way through the crowded ballroom. "Yeah right," she mumbled with a snort.

The applause grew again as a female celebrity appeared in front of the military band, microphone in hand, to touch off the official inaugural ball dance. _Well, this is familiar. I wonder which two officers are going to dance with the ambassador and the governor-general_, Dac thought as he leaned over to get a better view of the crowd.

The celebrity from Earth, whom Dac did not recognize, began serenading the song for the slow dance between Une and the much older Sir Edmund, as a few other officers dutifully began dancing with each other or the civilian guests. Mazuri was already slow-dancing with another F/O, whose commanding officer danced with the governor-general.

Even as she slow danced, Emi's eyes periodically darted as she looked around. "I've come as I promised. I hope you'll honor your half of the bargain, Ms. Yuy."

With her high heels, Yuy was able to match Emi's height. She winked at her with her right eye. "Of course I will. There is one name you must know above all."

"Septim," Emi said for her. "Is that what you had to tell me personally?"

The two turned slowly with the music. "Unfortunately yes, look over my shoulder."

Two tables away, Eva Cebotari was dancing with the commander of the 7th Division, his bright red uniform standing in sharp contrast to her dress.

"_Her_," Emi hissed dangerously.

"Don't stare," Yuy whispered into her ear. "We'll have plenty of time to talk here. She's less threatening in person."

"Like a true political officer," she mumbled back.

"She wouldn't appreciate that," Yuy warned back.

Emi opened her mouth to respond, before closing it again and finishing the dance. Just as the song finished, and Ambassador Une and the governor-general parted from their partners, she gestured with Eva's direction.

Shalua nodded, as Emi sat down at a nearby table, rubbing her gloved index finger and thumb together anxiously. Yuy proceeded to Eva who, upon noticing her, abruptly ended a conversation with flight lieutenant.

"Dr. Cebotari."

"Ms. Yuy," Eva greeted her breathily. "I didn't have a chance to say a proper goodbye to you at Bremen."

She looked over at Emi, who had a grimace permanently affixed on her face. "I'm sure Lieutenant Ogasawara was entertaining you with First Recon's exploits. Should I…?" she asked.

"Actually, I was hoping to speak to you personally," she said, leading her away from the table as Emi watched, fingers still rubbing.

"Of course. How may I help the Yuy Foundation?"

"As I'm sure you know…" Yuy began, as Emi stared at the two strolling away. She did not care that at the same time, Ambassador Une, from her table with the Sir Edmund, was watching her in turn, while a curious Kanna watched them in turn.

"What just happened?" Kanna asked aloud the room, before loudly slurping from her straw, as a much older, mustached flight lieutenant strolled by, stopping upon hearing her. He seemed to be staring at Emi.

"I have no idea," Clarkson admitted, before looking at her. "Young lady, what're you drinking?" he asked, looking at what was left of her bright pink drink.

"Singapore Sling. Sir."

Clarkson looked away and sighed. "Kids these days," he mumbled, clutching his whiskey glass.

**IX**

Howard sat in the belly of his base, Tallgeese visible through an open office window. The same mobile suit was displayed on a nearby monitor, married to its tall launch vehicle—a pair of powerful engines along with a pair of large fuel tanks and a few other maneuvering engines. More than enough to carry the ten tonnes or so that Tallgeese and its external equipment weighed. _It's a small payload in the scheme of things, even for an outfit like the Sweepers. _

One of Howard's employees appeared at the door, holding a sheet of paper. "Good news I hope?"

He scratched his head. "Not exactly, boss. Tallgeese is ready for launch any moment now, but in the meantime, when our window will appear is anyone's guess." He approached the desk and smoothed out the crinkled paper printout. "We're still trying to map all of OZ's surveillance satellites. Everything we've seen seems to suggest that OZ has at least eighty percent of the Alliances' network operational."

_And if their surveillance of Earth itself is imperfect, they'll definitely detect anything that could reach space. _Howard frowned. "So we can't just launch at any time, can we?"

"No, no we can't. You should tell him to get comfortable in the meantime."

He gave a sigh and held his head in his hands. "I guess it's all the same—if we were afraid of war…boy, did we choose the wrong line of work."

_**Author's Note:**_

_Here you have my unusually short explanation as to the gap in time between Zechs meeting Howard and his actual arrival in Outer Space. _


	28. Departure from Earth, II

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 28 – Departure from Earth, II**

For Walker, it was After Colony 191. Several thousand soldiers, sailors, pilots and officers of the United Earth Sphere Alliance Armed Forces had been gathered for Alliance Day, the worldwide public holiday intended to celebrate the founding of the organization and the transformation of the whole of Earth Sphere. Their venue was the National Stadium, not far from the Assembly of Representatives and the Alliance seat of government in Tokyo.

As they did every year, approximately five thousand men and women from the armed forces congregated in the venue to perform the "Anthem of the Alliance". The anthem had its origins not in Germany but here in Japan: in the decades before the capital was moved to Tokyo, the Alliance leadership had admired the huge orchestral performances the Japanese, among others, would perform of Beethoven's 9th Symphony. When the capital moved, Parliament decided that a reinvigorated UESA needed an anthem, the same as any one nation would have, and settled on the German favorite.

Every branch of the Alliance military was represented, including the Special Mobile Suit Troops. Indeed, the commander of the _Speciali, _Brigadier General Chilias Catalonia, served as conductor. Walker stood among the other graduating cadets, soon-to-be pilot officers assigned to units all across Earth Sphere. In practiced unison, they sang the best known lyrics of the famous melody.

_Freude, schöner Götterfunke, Tocher aus Elysium!  
>Wir betrenten feuerturnken, Himmlische, Dine Heilgtum.<em>

_Deine Zauber biden wieder, was die Mode streng geteilt,  
>Alle Menschen werder Brüder, wo Dein sanfter Flügel weilt.<em>

That was four years ago. In the meantime, Walker had been promoted three ranks to flight lieutenant, and was on Luna, attending the inaugural ball for the 7th Strategic Aerospace Division. Or he had been, and was now leaving the Old Opera House in downtown Marius City, having been reminded just how little his presence mattered—either in the company of so many other officers, or maybe just in general.

Crossing the lobby, he narrowly jumped out of the way of a junior officer who'd been absent mindedly wandering through in his baggy duster, but quickly snapped back to attention and saluted his back as he left him behind. Pulling up his cape, Walker jumped a turnstile in the main lobby, running past an alarmed usher just in time to catch the tramcar on the avenue he needed. He slipped in among the civilian commuters who stared at him curiously, throwing his cape back over his shoulder.

Flight Officer Kaneshiro had to hold back her laughter while she explained what she'd just seen to Flight Officer Mazuri and Pilot Officer Bishop, who agreed it was pretty funny before returning to their drinks.

Not far away, Shalua Yuy stood next to Eva Cebotari, watching the body of hunter green uniforms and glistening medals shuffle about the center of the ballroom. Between her and the officers, Eva finished what Yuy counted must have been at least her ninth glass of red wine. She seemed unaffected.

"Between you and I, what was the name of it?"

"Of what?" Eva asked, sounding more cold than breathy.

_This must be her suspicious voice. _"Of the final campaign to end all hostilities in space. The one that would be touched off with the victory over D-120, but has since been scrapped?"

Eva didn't respond immediately. "Operation 'Nova'. I suppose you'll ask me now how the colonial militia factored into it?"

Shalua gave a sigh. "If you must know, the colonial militias have inadvertently proven harmful to me. Many of my best men, the most capable of my foundation, have left to answer that patriotic call."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Are you really?" Shalua asked, raising an eyebrow.

F/L Ogasawara Emi, who was glowering not far away at the bar, waited no further. She emptied a full shot glass in a gulp and tossed it at the surprised-looking bartender as she leaped away from the counter. Immediately, she took Eva by the sleeve. "Doctor, I need to pull you away from just a moment."

Eva rolled her eyes—again—as Emi dragged her away with more force than she was expecting. They made a straight line for the kitchen, pausing at the end of the hallway just past the door.

Once they were out of view, Emi shoved Eva against the wall with just enough force to rattle her. After Eva bounced, Emi stared into her crimson eyes, still holding her down by her gloves just below her underarms. "I'm tired of this bullshit. I'm tired of how OZ has no intelligence department and outsources it to _your_ office. I'm tired of how the military courts bring in officers exclusively from _your _office. I'm tired of how every goddamn thing in OZ seems to be run by the office that was only supposed to oversee recruitment. But most of all, I'm tired of this goddamn runaround!"

She released her left arm and grasped her cheek, moving her head about. "I'm starting to get sick of this smirking white face."

"I didn't know it upset you so much." Despite everything, Eva didn't seem frightened. She didn't even sound as annoyed as she typically did.

Hearing the clicking of high heels behind her, Emi released Eva before pulling on the hem of her uniform once to straighten it out. Eva fixed her long gloves and pushed the hair out of her eyes.

"Maybe you should be careful, Flight Lieutenant," Shalua warned. "They call her 'Stilet' for a reason."

Emi gave Shalua a look before turning back to Eva. "I need to know about the Septims and their legacy. And please spare me the cryptic metaphors."

Eva nodded. "Very well, Lieutenant. Tell me, are you a liberal or a conservative?"

Emi's eyes narrowed. "What did I _just _say?"

Her voice made it clear she was amused again. "This Septim Legacy goes back twenty years, to the assassination of Heero Yuy. The Yuy Foundation was the financial backer of Yuy's political party, the Colony Liberation Organization. But Yuy created them in such a way that, with his demise, they couldn't remain even that. The Yuy Foundation split apart, as did the Colony Liberation party. The Alliance blockade accelerated the process, and every chapter of Yuy's party claimed a colony. In D-120, it became the Colony Freedom Party, co-opted by a few of Alliance officers who resigned their commissions to do just that."

"Gwinter Septim."

"The first Gwinter Septim. He positioned himself as a savior to D-120, an effectual Heero Yuy. But he could only do so by resigning from the Space Forces, and without them, he had no major resources. He had to create a political legacy from virtually nothing, before another Heero Yuy rose instead."

"A foundation," Emi mumbled.

"Not everything needs to have the same name," she explained softly. "He appealed to the political right on D-120—businessmen, ombudsmen, high-ranking members of corporate and civil bureaucracy, the church, all respected men—and secured the money necessary to put his scheme into action."

"But the Septims are the second richest family in space, behind the Rebaba Winner Family. How did they accomplish that?" Emi growled.

"There was one major way. Septim's commission had been in the Communications Branch, and he understood how to exploit the Network and television news, even if he was limited to one colony. So while his son rose through the ranks, he created a 'political action committee'."

"A what?"

"A sort of political party that only exists on paper. With it, he created a powerful moneymaking system built around a simple mechanism: he collected mail addresses for almost the entire adult population then put them on sale to _other _political efforts in D-120. Those addresses were used to direct provocative media to the population, and indirectly boosted the desperate following of the Colony Freedom Party. When other committees caught onto this, they joined in, in effect creating a feedback-loop. News companies on D-120 would pay to use that list. Then his own media companies would pay money to use it. Through them, he scammed a huge portion of the adult population and the fears of the Seventies onward, creating a one-colony media empire."

"So he used fear to make a profit, instead of establishing order. How was that special?"

"Because, when his son became commander-in-chief of the Space Forces, he tore it all down. The Freedom Party became a real organization and not just a scam, and he made his grandson its leader. D-120 is not just the Alliance's colony, it's _his_ colony."

Shalua nodded. "He was very good. When I was a child, he had a fund where members would 'win' the opportunity to pay thousands each to meet personally with him."

"'What starts out here as a mass movement ends up as a racket, a cult, or a corporation,'" Eva said softly, quoting an American writer. "In the colonies, they can become all three."

"And that's why Gwinter III commands such loyalty from his colonial officers."

"OZ has just begun creating colonial militias, they couldn't compare."

Eva stared at Emi's dark eyes, still smiling. "D-120 doesn't seem like just another nut for the Space Forces to crack does it?"

Shalua actually recoiled briefly; for a second, it looked like Emi was going to grab Eva again, or worse. Instead, she crossed her arms and cocked her head, looking towards the exit. "No, no it isn't. It's not just another colony. The Alliance will turn D-120 into their citadel, into their Stalingrad."

Eva took the moment for her to fix her dress, pulling up on the hem over her chest and pulling back her gloves. "Enjoy the next month, Flight Lieutenant. It'll make you miss the Gundams." And with that taunting remark, the ranking officer took her leave, returning to the ballroom.

Emi watched her leave; Yuy watched her, seeing her muscular shoulders shift tensely underneath her wool uniform and cape. After a few moments, Emi ran a white glove through her hair and visibly tried to look more relaxed.

"Are you all right?" she asked quietly.

She looked at Yuy. "I'm great. Ask me again tomorrow. Or the day after."

Dac was still surveying the crowd as the inaugural ball was steadily dying down. Mazuri rolled his eyes at him before finishing his shrimp cocktail. "He's not coming back. Seriously though, did you think he was going to stay for the after-party?" he asked with a full mouth.

"Maybe he's heading out early."

"Right, right." He touched the rim of his glass. "Or he's heading back to the hotel to enjoy a warm glass of water with a lemon slice and some saltine crackers."

He looked at Dac, expecting at least a chuckle, only to see him sit back down, looking concerned. "You think it's about Colonel Zechs?"

"The thought occurred to me."

"Walker was a close comrade of his, weren't they?" Kanna asked, pulling up an empty chair to the table.

"It was before you joined," Dac said with a nod. "When we first met, he used to rave about Zechs constantly. Now, not so much."

"A real believer," she said, patting him on the shoulder with a big hand. "You'll understand when you grow up."

Dac shot her a glance while Mazuri laughed. "How about one last round, for our dear lieutenant?"

Mazuri's laugh carried over the crowd briefly, causing Luna Armonia's eye to dart over in her trademark manner. Colonel Soris Armonia smiled at her doing it, and as F/O Nichol passed by, took him by the arm.

"Tycho, you have a few seconds?"

"For the Sun Baroness, of course!" he replied, with one of his usual good-spirited grins.

"First, please give my compliments to the mayor and the staff," she told him, tapping her ceremonial saber against her leg. "Second, could you please see that Headquarters gets me the newest list of militia appointments."

"For C-102?"

"No, for all colonies."

Tycho blinked. "Unless you want to wait, I'll need to speak to Nguyen. He didn't attend otherwise I could ask him right now."

"Do that," Lady Soris asked, as he turned to leave. "Oh, and Tycho?"

"Yes ma'am?"

"You're very light on your feet," she observed she said, smiling.

Tycho smiled right back again, looking at the dance floor briefly. "It's this Lunar gravity, ma'am."

Her expression unchanging, Luna watched Tycho depart with the other officers. "The Sun Baroness?"

"It's a cute nickname," Soris told her. "I was hoping for the Sun _Colonel_, but whatever."

Towering over her sister, she leaned down and hung over shoulder. "Now, Luna, you want to see a real party?"

**II**

"Major!"

Eva had been enjoying her time alone in the quiet corner of the ballroom when a nervous junior officer in a dark grey duster shuffled up to her, saluting. Heaving a sigh, she sighed. "Yes, Officer…"

"Brown, ma'am. There's an urgent call from _Barge_, I need you to follow me."

Eva gave an annoyed sigh. "Very well."

Brown led her out through the side exit that the officers had used earlier that evening, in the direction of a nearby communications tower—a government officer that raised up through the city ceiling, with long range array erected above it that reached into space. "Right through here ma'am," he said, as the two entered through the lobby, past Marius City officials.

Eva glanced at Brown for a moment. "What unit are you from?"

Brown visibly twitched, taking off his coat awkwardly. "General Staff, Luna Office, ma'am."

"Fix your uniform, your insignia's wrong," Eva ordered him as they entered the central lift. Brown covered the OZ Earth Forces emblem pinned to his cap, looking down, as she entered the suite.

The large office was empty except for a pilot officer sitting with his back to her in front of the main window.

"What's this about?" she asked, raising her voice.

"Major Eva Cebotari of the Military Commissariat?"

"Yes?"

There was the unmistakable click of the safety on a service pistol as the pilot officer turned around. He was a young Caucasian with dark, curly hair and a number of crudely bandaged, deep wounds running across his face. He lacked use of his left eye, though whatever had maimed him did not impede his ability to aim a pistol at her, even with the fingers he was missing.

"I'm sorry, Miller, Captain, Jagdstaffeln 88, Alliance Air Force," he said, introducing himself. "Any of this sound familiar?"

"Not at all," she responded softly.

"Maybe it should. You sent my entire unit to its death needlessly, chasing trumped up charges against Zechs Merquise," he growled.

Eva kept staring down the barrel of his sidearm. "And?"

"And? That's my line!" he shouted. "Who the hell do you think are? We are not…pawns…to be used by the Military Commissariat!"

"I must have been mistaken, I thought that was precisely the role of a soldier…" Eva countered before Miller struck her across the face with the pistol's grip, knocking her into a rolling chair.

"NO! You are not some generalissimo, I'll be damned if I stand here and let you act like one!" he barked, his voice becoming strained.

From the chair she'd fallen in, Eva chuckled softly, holding the left side of face where she'd been struck. "I'm sorry you feel that way. In lieu of our headquarters on _Barge_, you should direct your complaints to our central office in Luxem-…" she smirked before Miller cut her off again.

"No! Not this bullshit!" he screamed, staring up at the ceiling, the service pistol shaking in his hand. "None of your political drivel! You killed us all, not Zechs! _You. Killed. Us!_"

As Miller kept repeating himself, he failed to notice a flicker of light off a metal surface appearing from Eva's long opera gloves. Taking a deep breath, Miller turned to Eva once more before tightening his grip and squeezing the trigger.

In a flash, Eva shifted abruptly to the left, as the bullet from the nine millimeter military cartridge used by both the Alliance and OZ passed through the spot where her head had been, leaving a neat hole in the furniture. Through the cloud of smoke, she leapt at him, and with a single motion of her right arm, sliced Miller with three long, thin blades she'd hidden in her gloves and now held between her fingers. A spray of blood stained her dress as his jugular hemorrhaged all over her. His sliced bandages coming undone, Miller stood upright for another moment before falling backwards, breaking a small table on his way down.

Heels clicking against the brushed metal floor, Eva stood over Miller's body as it bled and writhed below her. He'd dropped his service pistol and clamped down on the gushing wound in his neck. She lowered her left hand, the bruise he'd left already starting to fade away, and watched him. Miller's eyes twitched erratically for a few more seconds before he rolled onto his side, staring out the large window at the Lunar landscape. When he began mumbling, Eva bent her legs and kneeled down to hear him.

"I'll be sure to make note of that," she whispered back at him between his gasps, standing upright and smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress.

Outside, Brown had been standing nervously in front of the door since the gunshot rang out. His shifting in place was interrupted when three blades punched neatly through the wooden door he was guarding, causing him to fall to fall on his hands and knees. A powerful kick knocked the door off at the lock and it swung open, Eva standing, arms cross over her chest and blood on her dress.

Brown rose to his feet, unsure of what to do in this circumstance but keeping a hand close to the leather holster at his side. Eva glanced at him with a look of severe contempt.

"If you miss your hero Zechs so much, you're free to give up your commission and join him," she warned him before stepping forward. Brown jumped out of the way and watched her leave, before looking into the room at Miller's body. He swallowed, before carefully approaching him and throwing his duster over him.

**III**

Amid Eve's uncomfortable encounter, the ballroom slowly emptied of it occupants as the 7th Division made a line for the nearby club down the street, booked for the 'real' party, or at least the one people intended to party at rather than stand around rigidly and drink excessively.

Ambassador Une appeared among the body of offices pouring out of the main entrance, pausing for a few press photographs with Governor-General Wavell. Near her armored limousine, in the place of a regular military chauffeur, was her suit-and-cap clad driver, a very large Caucasian man exercising his biceps with a cable set as he waited. When Une finished, he swiftly put them away and opened the door for her and her guests.

The rest of Walker's flight shuffled across the street, staring at the garish neon sign hanging over the swinging doors of the club.

"Thank God," Bishop said aloud.

"For what?" Mazuri asked.

"I thought for certain that it would have one of those stupid names from Norse mythology, like 'Valhalla' or something stupid."

Mazuri knew Dac had a point: all across cities on Earth, there'd been a trend in the Eighties to name clubs after Scandinavian folklore. Perhaps quaint in Northern Europe, but seeing a club in Rwanda, famous for its nightlife, with a name from Norse mythology was a little stupid. "That's…true."

The two men came to a halt just behind Kanna, who was looking back and forth among the crowd.

"Something the matter, Kanna?"

She looked back at him, then kept looking around. "No, probably not."

"You sure?"

She glanced back at him again and shrugged before entering the club.

Feeling awkward in his full uniform, Walker strolled through a municipal atrium of Marius City away from Downtown, watching the stars through the thick glass of the high ceiling above him. In one glove, he grasped a map provided by the Marius City Tourism Department, which he'd taken off an information kiosk.

"Hey boss!"

He looked back down at the 'street level', seeing a male Lunarian in a tacky, striped suit addressing at him. "Help you find something?"

Walker nearly asked him, but caught himself. There was something inherently distrustful about a civilian dressed like that—either that, or he wasn't entirely comfortable around Lunarians. "No, I'm…quite fine, thank you."

_While it's true Luna was not part of Heero Yuy's colonial revolution, Marius had its own mutiny in the factories, led by none other than our own Colonel Sedici's mother, Lady Artemis. _Walker briskly walked away—he was the fastest he could manage on Luna—and continued ignoring the civilian's further exclamations. He came to the end of the atrium and spotted the walkway he needed to take about ten meters below. Reminding himself that he was in sixteen percent normal gravity, he vaulted over the guardrail and slowly but surely fell to the floor below, his boots ringing loudly.

"I wonder how long before that gets old," he joked to himself. His destination was just a few hundred meters ahead, when the walkway exited into a major underground avenue: the Heero Yuy Memorial Library, built by the foundation that bore his name. Like most of the architecture around Marius City, it was built in vaguely Prussian style with an impressive, brown-and-white façade, and had to be wedged into its own little section into the concrete.

Glancing at the photograph in the pamphlet, he nodding at the building once before scaling the steps and pushing open the swinging door—like a lot of major institutions in Marius City, the library was opened 24 hours a day, since time was standardized and the lunar day was 27 Earth days long, a better measurement for a month than a day.

The inside of the building was nicely furnished and somewhat quaint, reminding him of the Taiwanese Presidential Palace he'd visited on a grade school field trip through East Asia. He walked right up to the counter and caught the attention of the bored librarian, a young Lunarian a few years his senior wearing glasses on a chain that would have looked more at home on a much older woman.

"Can I help you, soldier?" she asked sweetly.

"Lieutenant," he countered in his unusual good-natured way. "I'd like to see your government records section, if I may."

She smiled at him, as though unsurprised. "I was wondering when another one of you would show up."

"I'm not the first?"

"Not at all," she assured him, circling around her desk and gesturing down one hallway.

"Could you tell me who, please?"

She glanced at him over her shoulder. "I don't know about Earth, Luna is a free society. So I'm afraid I can't tell you that," she told him condescendingly.

_Of course. _Without another word, she led him down the hallway to a side hallway, down a stairway, and into a wing just off the main floor.

"Just close the door when you're done," she asked him before vanishing. Walker smiled back at her before pacing around the collections, running a glove over the spines of thin, identical-looking government records, many of them from the Alliance on Earth. He hoped, maybe, that a few records here had escaped the eye of the Alliance or slipped through the cracks, documents that featured certain military details that the Alliance had every reason, and every right, to keep out of public discourse.

"Except I don't know how anything is sorted. I'm an engineer, not a librarian," he mumbled to himself. He undid his white cape and gloves, and over the next few hours, painstakingly checked each shelf in the section, reading through the indexes and glossaries, hoping to find what he was looking for. He soon found is problem was a not a lack of information but an abundance of it.

Replacing a book on a shelf, he pulled a chair out from one of the two tables in the room and at down, resting his eyes—it as a dark month for Marius City, and his watch told him it was well past midnight in Western Europe and Africa. He was sitting in a library on the Moon, and felt as safe as he did in any other unfamiliar locale.

He rested his eyes. That quickly turned to drifting into the first stage of NREM sleep. He was dragged out of that by the sound of the door opening nearby, jolting upright in his chair. His vision was briefly cloudy—the blurry outline of a pale figure in very dark clothes with very dark hair came to view. Soon after, he realized it was a tall, wel- endowed woman with dark red lips, eyes, and long gloves.

"Flight Lieutenant Walker," Eva told him, sounding terser than her normal breathy.

"Major Cebotari," he mumbled, slowly rising to his feet. "What are you doing here?"

She stared at him for a moment, as if summing up the sleepy officer. _Apparently, he doesn't listen. _"The same as you, I expect," she told him sharply and softly. She stared at him with angry eyes before throwing her head back, shaking her hair. "An officer from the Mobile Suit Troops just _tried_ to murder me," Eva said, gently running her hands along the spines of the books on the shelves, just as he had.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" he asked, his eyes widening.

"A Captain Miller. He must have followed me from Earth, very troublesome."

"Major, are you all right?"

"Where's the Earth Sphere government records section for the Seventies?" she asked.

Walker looked around the massive library quickly, before turning back to his own isolated wing and walking through the shelves. Eventually he found the section: a series of books with identical spines, and stamps they'd all been delivered to Luna by the Yuy Foundation.

"Quite a collection they have here," she observed, reading the different colony designations at each section. Pausing in her steps, she took one book, flipped it open to a page and, very abruptly, tore it in half from the spine. "Shame most of them are junk."

"Major! What are you doing, those are irreplaceable!" Walker cried out. "Probably!" he added immediately afterwards.

"The hardest part is finding which ones are true." She took three more books, holding two her arm as she collected three more.

"I want you to read all of these," Eva instructed him. "In order. Memorize every word of them. Then, maybe, you'll understand the answer."

In spite of himself, he asked the most obvious question. "The answer to what?"

"The last twenty years."

**IV**

The order was given to muster before dawn, and a tired F/O Benjamin Disraeli stood with the other pilots in his squadron, sent to reinforce the weakened 98th Corsican Legion of Honor Battalion following a bad run in with Gundam-03 in Marseille. The city was won from the ex-Alliance, but all ten mobile suits had been lost at the cost of nine pilots. The only survivor was Pilot Officer Abbas, who'd been shot down by the Alliance Army and recovered after the battle. The experience, Disraeli had noticed, had left the Algerian officer with a rather bleak outlook on life even if there had been no negative ramifications on his career yet.

"All right, gents, listen up. I've got a sore throat and don't care to repeat myself!"

Their commander in the 98th Battalion was a Flight Lieutenant Harris, an American from the area of Boston. Harris was typical of OZ's 'young veterans', not dissimilarly from Walker and his ilk. He was a little eccentric and even strange and in particular he seemed always be sick with either a mild cold, or sore throat, or a weak fever. He never seemed to visit the medics though, so it was hard to say whether he had a substandard immune system or was actually a hypochondriac.

"Tomorrow, at twelve hundred hours, the last units of the Fourth Fusilier-Marins Regiment will formally withdraw from the Sanc Kingdom, meaning the last OZ forces will cross over into Denmark."

There were some murmurs of approval from the line of chairs arranged in the command post, just behind the line of OZ-07 'Aries' mobile suits.

"However, Luxembourg doesn't really think the Sanc Royal Police Service has any chance of holding off an Alliance invasion, and the whole of Central Europe is honeycombed with Alliance holdouts. Operation 'Godiva' will consist of four divisions and five MS battalions launching simultaneous attacks on ex-Alliance holdouts at New Gothenburg, Rostock, Poznań and Bornholm. That's the Baltic Sea Squadron, the remains of the Scandinavian Air Army and various mobile suit battalions and companies."

"I've heard what's left of the S.A.A. are diehard veterans. Men who fought Zechs Merquise," Abbas mumbled quietly as he peered over the map rolled out across the folding table. More murmuring, this time more anxious than pleased.

Harris coughed, clearing his throat of phlegm. "That means they're at least as good as the Indian Ocean Squadron," he said, half-jokingly.

The remark was in poor taste. "Who's our ground support?" Disraeli asked.

Harris stared at him with a hint of confusion.

"Disraeli," he reminded him.

"Right, Disraeli. The ground guy," Harris mumbled. It was in the interest of every Aries squadron, or at least company, to have a designated 'ground guy', someone who maybe wasn't the best at taking g-forces, but could organize maneuvers on the ground and triangulate fire a hard defensive position with Leos or armour. Disraeli, it seemed, was that guy. "The One-One-One."

This time, the murmuring was replaced by somewhat gnashing. "The Hundred-Eleventh _Infantry _Company?"

"The Hundred-Eleventh Kaliningrad _Combat Engineers_," Harris corrected him. "With enough AMGM to fight the next revolution."

"What happened to the Twelfth Division?" another

Harris sneezed into his handkerchief. "All of their Leos are being south, far south." He leafed through the documents over the map. "Albania. For the Greek Revolt. Rest is at Headquarters."

More gnashing accompanied by moaning. Harris imitated them chattering with his right hand. "In the meantime, we will act like one of OZ's elite airborne units and manage without them. Disraeli, I want you to get ahold of the One-One-One and check if they'd had any problems with the Sanc authorities about the Alliance arsenal at New Port. If there's so much as a single spare artillery tube or guided missile, the Sanc better hand it over _pronto_."

Disraeli took out his scratched, worn-out mobile. "Who knows, maybe they left us a few Leos."

"See, that's what I want. Optimism."

"Except the Hundred-First couldn't use them if they had them."

"Shut up, Kelly." The lieutenant unrolled a different map, of a small island off the Jutland Peninsula. "Now look alive: this, gents, is the Sanc Kingdom."

**V**

Walker's background meant spending a few hours in that little room couldn't have been easier. Though what he found in the books was a not entirely clear history of multiple subjects—the domination of the Alliance, rise and fall of Heero Yuy, the new politics of the G8 and the Romefeller Foundation, the first military use of mobile suits and the blockade of the colonies. There was even a short section on the birth of the Peacecraft Monarchy and its subsequent demise at the hands of the Alliance. At first, he wasn't really sure what he was looking at, but something did reveal itself as he sat there.

_I may be predictable enough that my understanding of history is shaping by engineering. Take OZ: I always believed the Order came about to develop the first military mobile suits, Tallgeese and Leo. And that seems to be correct, but that doesn't fully explain the creation of an army within an army. _

His eyes went along a particular page—a report to the United Earth Sphere Assembly of Representatives' Committee on Terrestrial Youth Movements.

_So, in the mid-Seventies, the Assembly approved the mobilization of the Romefeller Foundations' Youth Movement, the Cadets. Then-Colonel Chilias Catalonia, who was one of the founders of the Mobile Suit Corps of the Alliance Army, was made the commander of this unit, the Special Mobile Suit Troops. _

Walker looked at another book, the one Eva had torn along the spine. It was a compilation of translated articles from conservative German, French and English newspapers in AC 182, all of which attributed the decision to launch Operation 'Autumn', the Alliance policing action in the Sanc Kingdom, to political pressure from the Romefeller Foundation.

_The Alliance Army chief of staff, Karl Friedrich von Hohenzollern, was a known Foundation board member. The year before he rallied _against _any Alliance interference against Marticus Rex's monarchy, but he changed his tune._

He rubbed his face. _Hohenzollern's deputy, Colonel Diego D'Ongelle, commanded the single regiment that was needed to storm the palace._

Walker tapped one of the passages with a finger. _There were practically no casualties, since the Alliance literally begged for the capital to be evacuated. But they were supposed to bring the whole family into protective custody, not kill the king and queen. In fact, the Alliance never expected to have to fight in Sanc at all, until the Royal Guard made a suicide stand in the capital. _

He scratched his head. _What better way to make sure the Alliance suffered for their aggression than another giving them another martyr to contend with? Could it have been avoided? If OZ had been around then, Marticus Rex would probably still be alive today. _

He grabbed another book from the stack. _I wonder if Zechs knows this. _He shook his head. _Of course he does, the real question what version of this he knows._

He flipped page, revealing a news photograph of the Peacecraft Castle burning from artillery directed at garrisoned floors. _And what else he knows. In the end of the day, the only 'winners' here were the Peacecraft monarchy, if you could call them that. _

He closed the book and sighed. _I may know more, but I'm also more confused. I wonder if that was Eva's point. _He never knew what on that her mind, his own military mind was not well-equipped for psychological ploys, much less something from a mind as twisted he believed Eva Cebotari was. She was the highest officer from the Military Commissariat he'd met, after all. And people didn't just want to murder you for no reason.

Walker yawned in the dim light, easing back into the wood chair. _If you can learn one thing everywhere you go, at least you've accomplished something._

_Who told me that? Was it Zechs?_

_It would sound like him if it was, wouldn't it?_

**VI**

The after-party in Marius City was starting to pick up steam. Despite the notion that no one partied like officers form the _Speciali_, it was actual fairly tame. Everyone was tired from the transit from Earth and the inaugural ball and those who weren't still knew they only had a few hours before they due at their postings. A few officers were settling with a poor night's sleep and some face time, while others tried to make their first night on Luna more than mildly interesting. Some fell in between.

Dac and Mazuri tried to have fun, capitalizing on their youth and energy to sit in a booth and drink cheap beer while their comrades danced, sang or slept despite the noise. Behind them, a rather handsome Hispanic P/O no older than twenty had a slightly older Caucasian F/O sitting in his lap. While the two kept necking, Mazuri indiscreetly stared at the back of his head, while Dac watched them in the reflection of an empty beer bottle.

"You ever hear of David Nikolaidis?" Mazuri asked as they continued.

"No," Dac replied, pushing the bottle aside.

"He was a lieutenant colonel in the Specials, one of Chilas Catalonia's subordinates. When Catalonia died in 'Ninty-Three, Nikolaidis was in charge of the Military Commissariat and a big shot in the Alliance General Staff Intelligence Directorate. Nikolaidis was one of the people pegged to replace Catalonia, along with Treize Khushrenada."

"What happened? Was he too old?"

"No, he was too married." Mazuri said, yelling to be heard over the music. "The Special Mobile Suit Troops staff had what was called a 'ridiculous fear' by the rest of the Alliance. They didn't want any married officers. Statistically, a certain number of spouses commit infidelity. And that infidelity could be used as a basis for blackmail to reveal sensitive information about the Alliance or OZ."

"That's a little…severe."

"That's what everyone said. Nikolaidis was offered the position, provided he divorced his wife. Obviously he refused, and ultimately he left the Specials to work for Intelligence fulltime. A few weeks before Operation 'M', Nikolaidis was revealed to have had an affair with his psychiatrist and was forced to resign. His resignation may have allowed the Alliance to be so badly blindsided by the Gundams, or so goes the theory."

He sighed. "But for the grace of God go we."

Behind Dac's head, the F/O unbuttoned and awkwardly yanked off her dress coat. She stopped at her maroon uniform blouse, before pressing her forehead against her companion. The two exchanged a laugh.

"Now that I think about it, I can't think of a single officer above the rank of flight lieutenant who's married," he offered.

"Me neither."

"What about Chuang?"

"In the Second Division? No, he's a bachelor."

"What about SquadCom Johnson, from the Reserve Army? Or what used to be the Reserve Army?"

"Gay, but not married."

"I could have sworn he had a husband," he mumbled with a frown. "You know what, this is boring…as…_hell_."

"Agreed," the other mumbled, flicking a bottle. The two sat in silence for a few seconds as the lights changed color and the entertainment—the same musicians and singer from the ball—began a new song.

"Ajay, you want to see who's dancing on those tables over there?"

"Absolutely." Without another word, the two rose out of their booth and descended into the crowd. Not far away, Kaneshiro Kanna strolled around the bar, smiling cheerfully, when a pilot officer who was drifting to sleep nearly fell out of his booth, only to be caught by her.

"Easy there, kiddo," Kanna said with a laugh, helping him sit back up. For a second he thought she might be drunk, only to smell his sobriety and realize he was just dead tired.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I'm a little…Ms. Kaneshiro?"

She sat the young man back upright—aside from being blond and pretty, and a little on the short side, she didn't recognize him. All the same, he did look familiar. "Uh…"

"It's Levinsky, ma'a. From the Fortieth Division? In Utah?"

Kanna didn't mind looking surprised—she felt stupid for forgetting a familiar face in the first place. "Ah…"

"It's fine, ma'am," he said in a good-natured tone. "You probably didn't expect to see me in Outer Space, frankly."

"No kiddin'. You're a little young to be out here."

"That's what I thought too, but I lucked out. They needed a pilot to round out Squadron 3 in the First Company, and someone put my name in," he said, nearly beaming.

She grinned and patted him on the head. "_Omedetō_! Do you know who?"

"No I do not," he admitted.

"Well, you did great in Utah," she assured him. "You'll probably be great here. When I was your age, I was still an officer cadet."

She laughed again. "When I say that, it sounds like ages ago!"

Levinsky stepped aside as two other pilots made their way past him and climbed onto the nearby table, dancing with the music. "So, I've never been at one of these things before," he explained. "What do you do if you can't drink?"

Kanna thought about it. "Network, I guess. I mean, that's what they do in the private sector, right?"

"Right." He looked around. "How do you do that?"

Kanna stood up to her full height—she towered over most of the other pilots—and scanned the room. "Here, follow me!"

In the center of the club, in front of the dance floor, the same celebrity from the inaugural ball continued singing, surrounded by amateur musicians from the Space Forces. The ranking officer present was Lady Soris, who spent her time smacking backs and laughing raucously with a few other officers posted to the navy. Luna sat next to her, very quiet and rather quiet, even as a very inebriated P/O clambered onto their table and started gyrating her hips to the music. The officers around hooted in approval and surprise.

"Now I feel bad," Soris said smiling sympathetically.

"Why's that, ma'am?"

"I already spent my last fiver." Another burst of drunk laughter,

On the opposite side, at the bar, Flight Lieutenant Ogasawara sat at the counter, one hand around a cocktail in a damp glass, her dress coat open and her collar unbuttoned. She squeezed her glass in time with the dance music, though not because of it. The plate in front of her had half a lime and a small knife on a plastic plate.

Amid the conversations and deep bass, her sensitive ears were able to make out a familiar clicking sound of heeled boots against the brushed metal floor. A chair was pulled out from the counter near her and another woman sat down next to her, a pair of long black opera gloves coming into view as she held her fingers together.

"Hello again, Major."

"Flight Lieutenant," Eva replied breathily, signaling for a drink with two fingers.

"I didn't expect to see you here," Emi told her calmly.

"Why is that?" she replied, a little too innocuously.

Emi sensed something was wrong and raised an eyebrow. Still, she pressed it. "Because in spite of your cleavage, you don't seem like the party type. And because you don't seem at home surrounded by happy people. Things like that."

Eva's drink came, also a cocktail. Instead of taking it, she propped her head up against her right arm, resting it on the counter, so she could look directly at Emi. "Or because a Mobile Suit Troops captain tried to murder me an hour ago?"

Emi's reaction was abrupt and undisguised: she actually cracked the glass clenched in her hand, though not enough to cleave the glass completely. She stared at her glass, then at Eva. "Could you repeat that?"

She stood up and took a sip. "Captain Miller, from Jagdstaffeln 88 managed to sneak _here _from _Earth_ and tried to shoot me. He had an accomplice, an officer named Brown."

Emi said nothing, so she continued. "That pursuit squadron was shot down by Zechs and Noin in Antarctica. He probably snuck here in the civilian traffic then blended in with the arriving division."

"If you know all this, you must know I wasn't involved."

"Oh I do," she assured her coolly. "Though I am curious why you seemed so angry at me."

In a blur, Emi released her glass and grabbed Eva's side, just under her left breast, and squeezed hard. Despite herself, Eva shuddered in her seat, as if she had to fight the urge to jolt out of her seat.

"With all due respect, Major," Emi growled. "I am _upset _at you. If I was _angry _at you, you'd _fucking _know I was angry at you. And I wouldn't use some Romefeller callboy to make it clear."

"Is that so?" Eva asked, carefully setting down her drink and smiling suggestively at her. Her movements were slightly more deliberate now, and Emi squeezed tighter.

"Yes it is. We do things different in First Recon," she said, taking another drink. "There are limits to your cloak-and-dagger bullshit. Keep that in mind."

Eva closed her eyes, still smiling. "That sounds like a threat," she replied softly.

She opened her eyes when Emi failed to deliver a cold retort. Instead, while still holding onto Eva, she'd turned in her seat away from the bar.

"_Tai-i! Tai-i!_" another woman called out, making her way through the crowd in the direction Emi was staring. Eva recognized her as Walker's giant, friendly Ryukyuan subordinate, Kaneshiro. She didn't recognize the young P/O who was following her.

"Kaneshiro-_kun_," Emi replied, her tone having changed completely. She'd gone from very frosty to quite relaxed, practically amiable. "_Ogenki desuka_?"

Kaneshiro laughed at the question. "I just wanted to introduce you Levinsky-_sho-i,_ from our division."

The very young officer saluted briefly and gave a charming smile, pushing some of his blond hair out of the way. "Thank you, ma'am, but we actually met in Nairobi, I believe."

"Yes, that's correct," Emi replied. Her voice had also become very cordial, albeit forced, and had risen an octave. "It's very nice to see you again, Mr. Levinsky."

"You too, Flight Lieutenant," Levinsky replied, before all four of them stood in an awkward silence. Kaneshiro's eyes wandered nervously before settling on Eva—Emi had superimposed her body in such a way that she couldn't see her squeezing Eva's chest.

"Eva-_hakase_!" she began. "Whaddya know! We met aboard the _Shivalik _before it transferred to the _Catalonia_, and in Diekirch, along with the F/L."

"Yes, that's right," Eva replied, matching Emi's friendly tone.

"Honestly, ma'am, I didn't recognize you in that dynamite dress," Kaneshiro jeered, elbowing Levinsky. "Tell me that isn't the sexiest notch you've ever seen," she said, pointing at the slit cut in center.

Levinsky chose to laugh rather than respond directly then blinked. "Are you two friends?"

"Oh yes, we are!" Emi suddenly blurted out, resting her head on Eva's bare shoulder and smiling much wider than Eva'd ever seen her smile. "Right, _senpai?_"

She was thinking about her response as she turned to Emi's head on her shoulder and saw what she was holding in her other hand, behind her: the knife from the counter, just barely poking into her skin. She hadn't felt it on account of the squeezing. "We are," she said, once again matching her tone.

Kaneshiro threw a friendly arm over Levinsky and mercifully led him away from the increasingly awkward conversation. When they were half-way across the room, Emi finally released Eva, causing her to practically fall away. She sighed and stared at Emi, who looked slightly less confident and commanding than she had before.

"I'll go ahead and tell you: if you do anything to him, I'll kill you," she mumbled softly, trying to hide how nervous she'd suddenly become. "It would be hard to miss your sternum in that dress."

Eva said nothing as she tossed a Lunar bank note onto the counter and turned to leave. "Good night, Major."

Eva watched her leave with a contemplative smile, massaging the spot on her rib cage where Emi had left a deep, hand-shaped bruise. She thought about acting on what just happened but decided, for once, it wasn't worth thinking about it further. Not far from her, someone was laughing hysterically, as Dac fell backwards from the top of the table, in the low gravity, and bounced against the floor, taking an empty beer bottle with him. He burst out laughing himself, as the two women who were still on the table pointed and giggled uncontrollably.

"Hey, hey!" Dac yelled from the floor, able to pull himself quickly in the gravity. "You wanna' see something cool?"

Dac literally lurched back onto his feet, and with Mazuri's help, climbed onto the stage jut behind the vocalist. The backup keyboardist was away, taking a break, glanced from the bar just in time to see Dac plop down into his seat behind his keyboard and, flawlessly, started playing along with the civilian vocalist—an impressive feat that left Mazuri clapping and nodding in approval. When she finished her pop song and the audience clapped and hooted, Dac bowed politely at the vocalist and the audience, before strolling to the stage edge and, for the second time that night, falling over.

**VII**

The next "morning", Walker left the library and went to the port assign to the 7th Division, where a number of small, local shuttles would ferry them to their different postings. He wasn't that surprised to see that he was the only one from his flight present, though officers were still trickling into the port, most of them looking rather exhausted a night of partying rather than resting.

He spotted a familiar face—Andretti, from the Lunar Military District—speaking to a Mobile Suit Troops transport officer, and put on his most friendly face.

"Andretti."

"Walker, good morning," he said with a smile. "You're an early riser."

"The rest of my flight'll arrive shortly."

"I'm sure," Andretti said, grinning wickedly. Though Walker didn't know, he'd been at the after-party.

"Walker Flight, Squadron 1, First Company," Walker told the transport officer, who looked through his clipboard.

"Walker Flight, you've been deployed to _Barge_. That shuttle," he told him, pointing.

Andretti patted him on the back. "Unlucky you. Some other companies are being sent to C-102. You know, a civilized posting."

"I don't mind fortress postings," Walker told him. Andretti gave him a look and rolled his eyes, as more officers entered the loading bay. "Regular, convenient, orderly."

"And there's a certain discipline to it," Andretti offered, looking the other way.

"Well, that too," Walker admitted, as Andretti patted him on the shoulder and pointed away from the shuttles. About thirty meters, the three other members of his flight entered through the main doors, in less than military condition: Mazuri stumbled in, bags around his eyes, holding his luggage. He was followed by Kanna, standing upright and grinning, and holding a sleeping Dac in his arms, who was clutching his luggage tightly.

Andretti was clearly holding back a smug chuckle and Walker frowned just a tiny bit. "They're actually very fine pilots," he told him quietly, just in time for Kanna to let Dac fall onto a pile of luggage being loaded onto the shuttle. "Mostly."

"Mostly," Andretti replied.

The actually shuttle ride was thankfully unremarkable, with Walker once again sitting in the forward cabin with the other officers, where Nichol once again tracked him down, just as they completed their orbit around Luna and were burning prograde.

"You have a good night, sir?"

Walker took a moment to think of a safe, unassuming answer. _He must have known I wasn't at the after party. _"Productive."

His smiled faded away. "I didn't want to mention it last night at the ball, but I'm…sorry about Colonel Zechs, sir. I know you two had history."

Walker just smiled back. It looked as though he were going to say one thing, only to rapidly change his mind. "It's important we keep looking to the future."

"You're a better man than me," he admitted, sitting in the empty seat facing him. "Can I be frank with you?"

"Of course."

"After that stunt in Antarctica, I hope he burns," Nichol mumbled. "If not already, then soon."

Nichol had hoped for some kind of response. Instead, Walker stared at him with that vaguely hawkish but otherwise indifferent face. Then he spoke. "You knew some of the pilots in the Jagdstaffeln, didn't you? Back when you were Alliance Space Forces."

He nodded. "I always hated Acht. But he didn't deserve what he got." He gave a deep sigh and looked at the binder he'd been carrying and presented it to Walker. "No dwelling on it. I hate to ask you for a favor now, but are you still up for explaining things?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, taking the folder. Inside was a simplistic technical briefing of OZ's second generation mobile suit, the OZ-13SMS 'Taurus', machine printed on plastic sheets.

"We gave every single pilot in the Seventh Division a copy of the new Taurus manual. How many of them do you think read it?"

Walker was about to respond when Nichol preempted him. "Besides you, weeks ago when the first Taurus mobile suits were completed for the First Division? The answer is, 'very few of them'." He pointed at the briefing. "I want you to give them a general shakedown, make sure they know the basics before they go taking OZ's most expensive hardware and smashing it into colony walls at near-relativistic speeds."

_Shakedown? _"I think I understand. I'll have it ready by the time we get to _Barge_."

"Thanks. I'll tell the Eleventh Combat Engineers to give you a call with any additional information."

"Of course, I'm glad to help."

Nichol stood up and gave Walker a salute out of appreciation. "Thank you, you've saved me one further headache. You know, so much as happened since Mirny, we really need to catch up." He put an arm over Walker's shoulder. "I know a _great _bar on C-102, where Une's Legation is headquarters, we really need to…"

He paused, staring at Walker's empty expression. It had returned, after departing during the discussion of the mobile suits. "…or maybe not."

Walker looked back down at the manual and Nichol quietly left. It was page after page of old-style schematics, diagrams of the Taurus from a dozen different angles occupying the first few pages followed by expanded cross-sections of the mobile suit and then of individual components. It was familiar technology, all things he had seen before though hardly in the same dpth. He was still looking at it as _Barge _came into view through the nearby window.

"The Taurus, OZ's second-generation mobile suit, was intended to serve as a replacement for the extraterrestrial variant of the Alliances' mainstay Leo, used by the Pioneer divisions and battalions. It is now the principle unit used by the Space Mobile Suit Troops. Like the earlier Aries, it's intended for the roles of high-speed attack and interception, though its defensive power is still more than that of the Leo."

Just a few hours later, Walker was standing in front of the primary cafeteria, located within _Barge_'s cylindrical habitation ring. As usual, the front of the room had a projector screen and the gallery's tables had been folded away to make room for the officers of the 7th Division, who were sleepily leafing through the new manuals. Walker's flight sat in the front row—Kanna was the only one who was actually awake, and looking bored, while Mazuri and Dac occasionally drifted in and out of consciousness. Walker didn't apparently care.

"Don't let the absence of melee weapons and a shield fool you," he continued, changing the slide. "The Taurus trades old reactive armor, as was found on the Leo and Aries, for deformable, electrically-charged titanium armor with anti-beam coating. Some of you may recognize this technology from the shield on a Leo, which is also treated with the same coating."

A hand was raised—it belonged to Chernenko, who looked tired but was at least paying attention. "So it's like a Gundam."

This gave walker pause. "It isn't too dissimilar," he admitted. "The Gundams are named after the polymeric alloy they're made of, with features certain inherent anti-beam qualities alongside a certain charge. Of course, the Taurus was designed years before the Gundams even appeared on Earth."

He changed the image on the screen. "But where the Taurus really shines is in its offensive capability. Its primary weapon: a rapid-fire low temperature beam rifle, highly accurate and more powerful than any other rifle adopted into service. A single direct hit can penetrate the thickest armor surface on a Leo. The power pack is not replaceable, unlike in earlier models—it holds the rifle's capacitor and primary transformer. The rifle draws directly from the fusion reactor, effectively meaning indefinite ammunition limited only by your deuterium fuels cells and the cooling system. That being said, make your shots count."

Another hand shot up, this one belonging to a young Caucasian F/L.

"'Low Temperature'? Isn't space practically absolute zero? Wouldn't that cool our rifles?"

Walker sighed. He'd expected this eventually. "That's a common misconception. Vacuum actually dissipates heat rather poorly. And anything in direct sunlight can heat up very quickly. Fortunately, our black mobile suits and their weapons rely on that specialized coating that reflects almost all solar radiation. Besides part of the visual spectrum, of course."

"All spacecraft use that idiot. 'Cold in space', my god…" Chernenko mumbled as Walker shot him a weak warning glance.

The distinctive shape was replaced by a larger one, that of the cannon. "The beam cannon is the most powerful energy weapon ever mass-produced. I can attest from personal experience a full-power shot can penetrate completely _through _a _Los Angeles_-class fast cruiser. It outputs ten terajoules and it can defeat every single mobile suit that exists in one shot."

There was more murmuring in the audience. "That includes the Gundams," Walker added, trying to sound confident. "I've seen nothing to suggest that any one of them can withstand a direct body hit from a ten-terajoule weapon. And if you did run into a Gundam, the internal power cell has enough power for twenty shots. Beam cannons are only being issued to fight leaders, so only a third of you will actually have them. Both weapons can be carried and fired while in fighter mode."

Another hand went up. "Why only flight leaders?"

"Because beam cannons are expensive," he replied sternly. "We'll now go over advanced mobility doctrine and fighter mode, which I'd strongly encourage you to learn how to use in combat. I feel that if the First Recon Battalion can utilize it, so can the Seventh Division…"

The long debriefing ended a half-hour later, as the tired pilots of Seventh Division filed out to the main hallway to return to their barracks throughout _Barge_. Walker took his notes and copy of the manual and followed after them, only to be approached by one of the flight officers.

"Lieutenant Walker, sir," he said, saluting sharply. "Do you have a moment?"

He actually made a point of checking his watch even though he already knew the answer. "I seem to. How may I help?"

"I had a few questions about breaking formation while in fighter mode. Back in the Aries, I…"

As the pilot explained his concerns, Walker continued to his destination, one of _Barge_'s hangars, only to be stopped when he found the lift he needed under maintenance.

"Obviously, your squadron leader will make the final call, but I'd recommend getting use to very tight formations where necessary. We're not sacrificing our mobility advantage, especially against warships, while in fighter mode. I'll look at the flight data and see if I find a specific solution that works best."

"Yes, Lieutenant. Thank you, sir."

As the other officer departed, Walker glanced down the open shaft, leading to the edge of the habitation ring. He gave a sigh and began sorting through his papers, trying to organize them so he could drift down when his mobile went off. He fished it awkwardly out of a pocket and checked it—someone had sent him a message in lieu of a call, following the subject line "Hey!"

**Please get to D-1307 as soon as possible! We got so so so much to talk about! 3**

Walker stared at the message the same way he'd stared at F/O Tsujimoto during her impromptu interrogation in Kaliningrad. When he realized the angle bracket followed by a three was supposed to be a heart, which should have been obvious given that it was magenta unlike the rest of the message, the bigger issue dawned on him: someone not only had his mobile number, but also the extension to his deployment and the number to reach _Barge_. The sender's number was clearly not of military origin, but beyond that, he couldn't recognize it. He was also mildly worried about the presence of the heart sign.

His phone vibrated again, this time indicating he was being called locally within _Barge_. He answered nervously. "This is Walker, go ahead…" A sigh of relief. "I'm actually already on my way."

While Walker had his head start on his way to the mobile suit hangars, his flight got their instructions over the speakers in their shared room in the barracks.

"_Squadron One, First Company pilots report to the hangar: Kaneshiro. Mazuri. Repeat, Squadron One, First Company pilots report to the hangar…_"

"Wait, what about me?" Dac asked, suddenly feeling alarmed as he sat up on his bed.

Mazuri shrugged wordlessly as he pulled on he opened his locker and pulled out his normal suit. Kanna rolled her eyes and tried to comfort him. "We're probably not taking the carrier out."

"Why not?" he asked, sounding more than a little offended.

"Seriously, Dac, you're wearing fluffy slippers with your uniform," she pointed out as she pulled off her white trousers and climbed into her violet normal suit.

"What does that have to do with anything?" he demanded

**VIII**

"Flight control?" Walker asked into his headset, standing at the bottom of the hangar. He'd already changed into his sky blue normal suit, letting his helmet hang open.

"_Yes, Lieutenant?_"

"You didn't happen to send me a message earlier, did you?" he asked, holding his mobile up in the direction of the hangar control.

There was a pause. "_Lieutenant, we don't issue orders by text message_."

"Right, of course," he mumbled, as Kanna and Ajay approached. They saluted quickly.

"_Habari gani_, sir?" Mazuri asked in Swahili. Walker knew it was more a request for information than its literal meaning.

"We've got our first assignment: escorting the combat engineers to L1-D-1307. Command's not expecting any resistance, so we're going out under our own power, and we'll refuel on-colony if necessary, which it probably won't be." A thought occurred to him. "How's Dac?"

"Crying into his pillow," Mazuri told him, shifting in his folding chair.

"That's too bad," Walker replied, not sounding worried. "This'll be good trial run for the new machines, a chance to get comfortable with them."

"So we're not expecting anything from D-120?"

"It doesn't seem so," Walker explained.

"Who are the combat engineers?"

"Squadron 6 of the Ninety-First Battalion," Walker said, looking in the direction of the hangar itself—past the three OZ-12SMS 'Taurus' mobile suits, a number of cobalt blue OZ-06SMS 'Leo' units were being loaded into the standard rectangular Leo carrier. "They're a militia unit, one of the earliest, apparently. They're doubling as our division's engineering battalion."

"Great," Mazuri announced, loudly and sarcastically. Without looking, Kanna raised a leg and pushed him off his chair and directly into a wall, which he bounced off against before floating about, yelping.

"You'll be debriefed in-mission further, though for something this simple, there's not much too it. I'm going to greet the Squadron 6's flight leader and then seat up." He felt the pouch hanging from his leather utility built over his normal suit and opened it as he walked away. Taking out a mobile suit pennant, the same one given to him by Colonel Khushrenada, he held it in his hand for a moment before putting it away.

"_All pilots, hangar will be depressurized in fifteen. Prepare for launch. Hangar crew, report to your posts._"

"Units five through eight loaded. Loading units one through four now!"

Past the shouting floor chief, Walker saw the familiar rectangular parallel hulls of the standard SMS carrier, the same model used by the Alliance, with a capacity of twelve mobile suits and no armament. The remaining flight was being loaded into the carrier via towing lines, with their crews cautiously overseeing the process. Walker spotted the flight leader standing next to his Leo and a smile abruptly appeared on his face.

"It's not possible...Liu is that you?"

The pilot officer charge turned to him as he approached then shook his hand vigorously. "Flight Lieutenant Walker, it's good to see you again, after all this time."

"My goodness, you make me feel old," Walker exclaimed, patting his back when he finished.

"Hey boss, who's that?" Mazuri yelled across the hangar

"Just an old acquaintance," Walker yelled back. "I suppose I shouldn't be that surprised, but it's good to see you in the Seventh Division of all places."

"You too, sir." He looked at the three black mobile suits in the front of the hangar. "I see OZ knows where the talent lies."

Walker gave Liu Enlai a sympathetic smile, watching a blue Leo rise into the carrier. "Think of it as the Space Forces providing colonial engineers the best protection money can buy."

"Ah, it does sound better when you out it like that. I see why you're an F/L." He undid his holster and drew his sidearm, which he sighted and racked loudly before glancing at the German machine pistol strapped to Walker's utility belt. "Is that all you carry, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, why?"

"Could I make an honest suggestion, sir?"

"Of course."

Liu closed his helmet over his suit's collar and struck the emergency stop on the hydraulic gantry that was beginning to lift up his mobile suit. A horn blared once and the suit remained there—he went to an exterior equipment locker, built into the back of the left ankle armor. Opening it with a small key, he reached inside and pulled out a long shotgun, to Walker's surprise. Even more surprising, he handed it, stock first, to Walker who took it after a moment.

"Tactical shotgun, Benelli. Semi-automatic and gas operated, but you can use the pump-action if you care too," he told him before rooting around in the same locker. Walker looked at the shotgun and, carefully, used the pump action to eject a round which he managed to catch in his hand and look at.

"Breaching rounds. _Armor _breaching round, at least in theory," he said, before floating a box of ammunition his way.

"Are they lethal against a human?"

"You mean if they're not behind a vehicle hatch? Oh yeah, super lethal."

In the next ten minutes, the final few mobile suits were loaded aboard the carrier, which was released from its own gantries. The hangar was cleared of personnel not wearing normal suits, and Walker climbed into his OZ-12SMSK Taurus for the first time, letting the cockpit hatch and torso armor close behind him.

"_Still has that new mobile suit smell,_" Mazuri observed over the local radio.

"Put on your helmet Ajay," he advised, pulling some of the remaining plastic off the central console—it was a relief to see that surrounding him, as promised, was almost the standard OZ cockpit with only a few subtle variations: four MFDs, four display monitors, the same instrumentation and mechanical controls in the same layout used in every OZ mobile suit. Standing on the cockpit floor and propping one knee against the seat, he pulled the central cushion of his seat off the velcro holding it down, revealing the battery access and maintenance hatch, above and below an empty circular slot. Peeling away more plastic lining, he inserted the pennant, gave it a twist, and locked it into place before replacing the cushion.

"_All units, opening hangar now. Mobility restrictions are lifted._"

"Acknowledged, hangar control. Arrow Actual, ready to deploy."

"_Arrow 2, ready for launch_."

"_Arrow 3, ready_," Mazuri finished.

The armored doors of the hangar slowly slid open, and dark space stretched out in front of them, the Lagrange Point 1 colony cluster twinkling in the distance. Walker leaned forward on the throttle, gently pushing his mobile suit out of the hangar. Arrow 2 and 3 followed behind him, clutching their beam rifles.

"Everything's working so far. Once you've cleared _Barge _space, switch to fighter mode and burn for 6200 on heading 10-65," he instructed. By his, Walker was telling the other mobile suits to accelerate, raising their velocity by 6.2 km/s along heading 10 degrees, pitch 65 degrees, which would allow them to complete an easy Hohmann transfer to the L1 cluster between Earth and Luna.

"_Just so you know, sir, we've got our injection transfer set on our flight computers_," Mazuri pointed out.

"Yes, Ajay, I'm aware of that," Walker replied patiently, as he cleared _Barge_, removed the cover on a switch and flipped it , feeling his mobile suit's hydraulics whine loudly as it shifted into fighter mode. The light over the switch flashed from red to green, and he was in fighter mode, as indicated by the different silhouette on one of his displays. He pushed the throttle to full power, feeling himself accelerate. Arrow 2 and 3 behind him followed suit. Like most mobile suits, the Taurus had more room to spare in its legs than in its torso behind the ultracompact reactor, which meant the vernier thrusters and fuel tanks in its legs could be larger than the ones on its back. On the Leo, this was offset by the booster pack, but the Taurus could transform into a fighter designed to take advantage of the fact, allowing for more stable acceleration at cost of maneuverability.

The three mobile suits, and the carrier they escorted, were now in an elliptical orbit that would put them in the middle of the L1 colony cluster with minimal fuel consumption in a few hours. It wasn't fast, but it was economical, and it did mean that they could cover the carrier rather effectively.

"_It seems that at 0230 local time, an Alliance Pioneer mobile suit entered D-1307's space. The colony's defensive array wasn't fully operational apparently, so the mobile suit passed through their blind spot and was escorted by fighters to within three hundred meters, not responding to hails, when it suddenly came back to life and diverted. It forced open a service hatch in the maintenance sector of the central column and made it all the way into the habitable zone before crashing in a commercial ward. Emergency crews responded—pilot bled out. Combat engineers have been called to recover the mobile suit and survey the situation._"

Listening to Walker's briefing, Kanna watched the secondary instrumental panel, studying schematics for the Leo and the colony itself flash by, the ETA clock counting down.

"So it's our chance to break in the machines," she said.

"_I think so._"

"I mean, I'm not a military big shot, but you have to admit it's a little wasteful to send eight combat engineers and a Taurus flight just to check out a wrecked Leo."

Walker glanced at the shotgun propped to his right. It reminded him of being inside a police vehicle, of all things. "True. I think HQ is worried that Alliance be using this as a ploy to try something, but that seems fairly remote at this point."

Arrow 3 buzzed in. "_Lieutenant, may I make a suggestion_?"

_I think you will anyway. _"Go ahead."

"_In the future, if the whole flight is being sent on this sort of busy work, shouldn't you just take out the mobile dolls?_"

_That's actually not a bad point, especially considering their mobile suits already have that functionality. _"I suppose it does us little good besides getting flight time," he acknowledged, turning his glance from the shotgun to his mobile, which he'd taken from his pocket. A few taps and he was able to look through the message sent to him earlier.

_I dislike coincidences. Almost as much as I dislike the Gundams_, he mused, putting the mobile away. _And one day soon, the two will meet, right here._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_I guess every fanfic writer has to worry about things dragging out too long—myself included. I swear things will happen next chapter! Things involving the legendary God of Death, Duo Maxwell! And Une too!_

_In the meantime, I hope for the following: conversations between women that don't sound too forced (or too perfect or too stupid), an insight into the embarrassing side of someone too "cool" for her own good, and the slowly building conspiracy I've been trying to weave between the Alliance, the colonies, Heero Yuy's clique and a few dangerous characters in OZ. Eva gets a bit more inspiration from her…inspiration, though she's not alone in this regard._

_Of course, the more time we spend in space, the more I realize that my limited knowledge of physics, and astronomy, isn't quite cutting it. It's sad that a lot of technical information that's available in Universal Century Gundam isn't available in After Colony, leaving people to fill it out. Hopefully my understanding of heat in a vacuum isn't too terrible, along with my attempt to explain why OZ (or the colonies) can operate black mobile suits in outer space! But in the meantime, stay tuned for "Assault on _Barge_"!_


	29. The God of Death

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 29 – The God of Death**

A colony of average dimensions and population, L1-D-1307 was increasingly known for its close proximity within the region of D-prefix colonies at the first Lagrange point. Its nearby neighbor D-120 remained the most heavily militarized, best-defended colony in Outer Space and quite possibly the most militarized location in all of Earth Sphere, beating even Diekirch, Luxembourg. But unlike D-120's defensive emplacements, huge minefield and surrounding outposts, D-1307 was "only" defended by a small fleet of spacecraft and long-range sensors originating from the colony.

OZ's "representatives"—eight colonial militiamen recruited into the combat engineers and three veteran pilots from Earth—were immediately dispatched to investigate a mobile suit from Leo that had managed to breach D-1307's defenses and ditch inside the colony and recover all military equipment. The colonial media were already abuzz with the public demands for D-1307's own militia to be equipped by OZ, which was practically inevitable now.

After leaving fighter mode, the three mobile suit escorts secure the site while the combat engineers slowly transferred from their carrier through the main docking hatches. A perimeter was formed in New Birmingham, where the mobile suit ended up in, crashing near the dead center of a gridiron football stadium.

When it became apparent that not even the media would cross the police line around the stadium, much less anyone who actually might have threatened OZ's 7th Strategic Aerospace Division, Flight Lieutenant Walker didn't object to his two wingmen opening their hatches and exiting their cockpits for some fresh air. He even opened his own cockpit, took the tether down to the stadium bleachers near his machine and undid the magnetic seals on his normal suit's helmet. Taking in a chest-full of the somewhat smoggy air, he coughed and stretched and glanced over the football field. In the middle, cutting through the white chalk lines, was an OZ-06SMS 'Leo' mobile suit, its purple paint cooked off or scraped off near the ground and its camera eye visibly cracked. Specialists were busy cataloging and removing all the small pieces of debris, of which there were surprisingly few.

_Not a good landing, but the pilot could have survived. He must have been wounded when he escaped. _On his way into the stadium, he'd seen the weapons of D-1307's colonial military: very apparent part-time soldiers with combat gear and helmets and jeeps, dragging behind them actual field guns. D-1307 apparently had large quantities of low-angle field guns—not self-propelled guns, but old-style artillery on rubber wheels that had to be reloaded after each shot and manually turned by their crews to aim, as they had been for centuries. Just by looking at them, Walker guessed they were either 152-mm or 155-mm artillery, firing either APFSDS tungsten ammunition or HEAM ammunition. You _could _seriously threaten a Leo like the one in front of him with firepower like that—assuming you and three or four other guns all fired at the same time, it was standing still and it wasn't firing back.

_A machine like that probably came from Corsica or the Ruhr Valley or Georgetown. And here it is, sitting torn up in the middle of a stadium in some colony. The lifecycle of industrial production. _

It wasn't that odd, actually—Space Leos were manufactured with certain features that made them genuinely, if subtly, distinct from regular Alliance Army Leos, even before the vernier booster pack was mounted. Additional altitude control motors built on the shoulders, rocket engines in the feet and other features. Wherever this Leo was built, it was intended to be used in space, that much was certain—you couldn't simply convert a Leo for extraterrestrial use.

He thought back to a conversation he'd had with Commander Broden, four years ago or so after being posted in Japan.

_"You know, I had a history teacher in high school—unlike you, I had the privilege of finishing high school—a good one. He used to go on and on about 'the era we lived in', that sort of thing. That we'd survived the end of corporatism and capitalism and all those sort of things. But he'd say that, at the same time, we were creatures of history, that we could never escape it. That the capitalist world only came about because one half of the world colonized the other half, and it beat everything else—religion, communism, liberalism. But then one day humans realized the world had grown small, there was nothing left to colonize, and those colonized peoples just weren't there anymore. And capitalism couldn't survive without them. So it fell to pieces like everything else humans people had. And the next era, the new nationalists had to make new people to colonize and here we are."_

_"A very interesting interpretation of history. What happened to him?"_

_"Did I say something happened to him? Well, you're right. After I graduated, he was blacklisted for making politically unpopular statements like that. I think he hung himself a few years later when he couldn't get work._"

Walker stretched out over the bleacher, his normal suit cushioning him on an uncomfortable plastic stadium seat. _We're supposed to be making history, according to Colonel Khushrenada. _

There was a buzzing vibration from his inside his suit and he sat up, feeling about until he was able to get his mobile out. Unlocking the screen, he checked his message and found just one: someone had sent him a photograph of a line of OZ officers exiting through a hangar. After a second, he realized it was him in the center of it and his hair stood on end.

There was another clicking sound and he spun around—which in the stadium seating meant he actually just rolled onto the floor beneath him before quickly rebounding, his helmet smacking the back of his head.

Two rows behind him there was a tall, light-skinned woman with long hair was standing, holding a flip-form mobile in one hand. It took a second for him to realize that she wasn't looking at him, but at the screen. Her civilian attire—a snug, expensive-looking white blouse, an expensive, black leather skirt, a fashionable-looking belt with a large, expensive-looking square buckle—made him feel as though he'd been caught doing something wrong.

Her eyes looked through her narrow, fashionable glasses, as he was trying to slow his racing thoughts. He settled on the shotgun Liu had given him. _The most basic requirement of a self-defense weapon is that you have it on hand for defensive purposes._

Walker sighed through his teeth. _Like when you leave your machine to do recon. _But he was still armed with his pistol, the woman didn't appear to be armed at all. "Is there something I can help you with?" he asked, with the usual restraint he'd exercise whenever he spoke to civilians.

The colonial woman rapidly thumbed at her mobile with one hand, leaving Walker feeling confused and a little threatened until he realized she was very rapidly entering text into her mobile. He was still surprised when his own vibrated again and he stared at it: another image message, this of him in his normal suit just moments earlier.

"This number is yours, isn't it?" he asked finally. A brief moment of self-satisfaction was followed by shameful self-awareness. _There's a military education for you. _"That picture you took, from Luna? Delete it if you'd please!"

She stared at him, as if confused, half-awake, or both before turning the screen so it faced him, confirming his accusation. Walker looked around the stands, suddenly feeling guilty as well as stupid. He tried to relax his posture. "I'm sure you had a reason for being in Marius City, but what were you doing snapping images of military personnel?"

"It's part of my job," she said. She whispered softly enough he actually had to strain to hear her over the sound of activity behind her, colonials towing back the useless field guns and bringing in machinery. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I don't think that's any of your business," he fired back sternly, interposing himself between the woman and mobile suit, as though that was somehow effective in concealing the 16-meter-long purple wreck. "Wait a minute, this colony…you knew I was coming here!"

"Yes I did."

The conversation had transformed from a strange but harmless discussion between a civilian and a military officer to a very awkward shakedown "I…can't really articulate just how quickly I should have the authorities detain you just for that, but please understand I am _thinking _it," he mumbled back. "Get out of here, please, before I embarrass myself even more."

He turned around and reached for the guardrail separating him from the beam rifle he'd climbed across after leaving his cockpit, when she reached out and took the sleeve of his normal suit with a surprising amount of force.

"I need to speak with the pilot. The one you've _detained_."

"You mean the _dead _pilot?" he countered. "Maybe I should put you in contact with the Alliance Headquarters," he said sarcastically.

"Or that," she said, entirely too seriously.

Walker stared at her, his sleeve still being held back. She actually seemed more determined than previously. He was the one confused and alarmed. "Since you obviously, somehow, have my mobile number, what if…I were to agree…to look into the pilot…and contact you in the future."

He matched her intent stare with his own. _Even while lying, I have the negotiation capabilities of a child of Montessori. _

She finally released his sleeve. It didn't occur to him to simply climb away then. "Is that…acceptable?"

The strange woman nodded. "Who should I ask for?"

_No, children in Montessori don't prostrate themselves to strangers like this. _He was too helpful for his own good. "Oswald Walker. Flight Lieutenant Oswald Walker."

She was already entering his name when he looked back at her and showed the screen again.

**OZVALD WORKER**

"Right," he mumbled, recalling that dialects of English could vary differ between colonies. "Let me just…" he began, reaching out.

She gave a sharp yelp that startled him and cowered away, clutching her mobile in her hands. Now he was the suspicious one, apparently. He pulled up his goggles that he'd worn underneath his helmet and heaved a sigh before spelling out his name.

In the middle of the field, F/O Kaneshiro stared suspiciously in the direction of Walker's machine, though Walker was no longer in view, then to her right at F/O Mazuri, who'd left his machine too. The personnel on sight had made their preliminary inspection and were now clearing out to allow the combat engineers to bring in their heavy equipment. Pilot Officer Liu was directing people with traffic cop-like precision, gesturing all about.

"We'll take the wreck by the shoulders—they still look structurally sound—and transport it onto the flatbed," he yelled aloud, holding a handset close to his face. "Assuming there's nothing further, we'll be move out before 1300 hours."

"Wait, is that it? We're going back?" Mazuri asked, a little too loudly.

Kanna stared at him knowingly. "Nice try, Ajay. We're not staying a whole day for no reason, just so that we have to be put up in the D-1307 Hyatt, on OZ's dime."

Mazuri feigned shock too quickly to be taken seriously and she just rolled her eyes further. "Do you even know who pays for OZ?"

"No, not really."

"Me neither. Get movin', they're bringing the machines in."

Above, Walker was still in a poor mood. "Since you know my name, I'd hope you'd return the favor."

More rapidly tapping on her and his phone vibrated again.

**MAYA BARTON**

_Finally. _"Well, Ms. Barton, since we've finally been introduced, maybe you'd like to tell me…" he began when he was cut off by a deafening claxon blaring. Walker recognized it immediately: they were signaling the arrival of the combat engineers, who were using their mobile suit's vernier thrusers to propel themselves over New Birmingham Stadium's lowest walls and onto the field. It was a short jump, and a Leo had ground pressure low enough to walk on a pave road with minimal damage—but the landing was still enough to force them to right themselves on the increasingly-ragged stadium grounds.

"A crane would have torn up the ground too. If you jumped it," Walker shouted over the noise, turning to see that Maya Barton had taken the opportunity to flee. Standing there for another moment, he put a hand on his forehead then climbed up the barrel of his beam rifle. A light was flashing on the communication panel and climbing down into the cockpit, he pressed a switch.

"Arrow 1 here, go ahead."

"_Lieutenant, the engineers are about to load the mobile suit onto the flatbed, where it'll be taken to the hangar_."

"Of course."

"S_o…should we go, or…?_"

"Stay calm, Arrow 2," he explained. "We'll get our instructions from the Liu and his engineers."

"_It's not a real mission unless someone with diamonds on his epaulets talks for a while in the briefing room, right?_"

"That's an interest theory, Arrow 3," he replied as he pulled the cockpit hatch lever and watched the primary displays descend as his machine sealed up, then boot up displaying the stadium around him. "Go ahead and stow your weapons, I seriously doubt there's going to be any sort of enemy presence."

"_And if there was, the D-1307 national guard would take care of 'em, right?_" Arrow 2 jeered, trying to be funny.

_Please, Kanna, forced jokes don't fit you. They don't really fit Ajay either, but they don't… _Walker's thoughts were interrupted by a pinging much louder than he anticipated. "What!?" he barked angrily before realizing he'd set the volume so high so he could hear it through his helmet.

"I'm sorry, go ahead," he said, more composed.

"_Lieutenant Walker, we're all set here. Shall we meet you at the transfer point? I think the locals will appreciate not having us tear up their stadium anymore._"

"Affirmative, Liu. I'll see you at the docking port," he replied, closing his helmet. _There's a first time for everything. _"Arrow Flight, prepare for takeoff—switch to fighter mode and return to nav point 'A'."

"_Affirmative, _Taichō."

"_Affirmative, sir._"

Behind, he could hear two mobile suits rise on their vernier engines while turning his primary camera around the stadium stands one last time. _You know, it's possible she's a figment of an overactive imagination. I would very much like that_, he thought before he leaned forward on the throttle before transforming back into an aircraft.

**II**

Now-Second Lieutenant Edward Parsons felt the gold thread inlay of the one stripe on his right epaulet, as though its distinct texture was supposed to offer him comfort. It didn't, so he kept staring at the back of the Internal Army special weapons military police directly in front of him, counting the ridges in the composite armor vest he wore. Parsons wore the same vest, but lacked the helmet and other pieces of armor they wore, not to mention their automatic weapons.

The six-man team stood in the darkness, while the leader carefully handled the fiber-optic camera feeding video into his helmet-mounted display.

_I knew the end of my candidacy and the beginning of my commission meant I'd be leaving Eva's office, _he thought to himself.

Participating in a bust was in Amstelveen was _not _where he expected to be after receiving his commission, not even remotely, even though he knew that these sort of things could fall into the Military Commissariat's purview under certain circumstances. He hated certain circumstances. His legs were about to fall asleep, he'd been crouched over for so long.

Distracted, he missed the merciful gesture from the team leader, who gave the hand sign to prepare for the assault. Another officer affixed a breaching charge to the door in front of them as the fiber-optic camera was stowed. They raised their machine pistols, signaled their readiness and then breached.

The explosive charge blasted the door open and the team stormed the stairwell through it, one man covering each door on the way to the top floor. The remaining four, and Parsons, stormed through the open doorway into the bedroom. Its three occupants—two civilians and a captain from the OZ's terrestrial naval forces—were caught unawares.

Parsons appeared from behind the four MP's, lowering his sidearm and holding a warrant in this other hand. "Captain Z. L. Lewis, we have a warrant for your arrest. You've been charged with misappropriation of military funds, larceny and perjury."

He glanced at the lines of white powder arranged on the coffee table in front of the couch Lewis was lying on. Taking a pen-like device out of his pocket, he stuck the tip in one of the lines, waited for a beep, then glanced at the tiny screen. "You're also under investigation for possession of illegal substances."

One of the MP's released his weapon and picked up Captain Lewis, who was still groggy and possessed a bright red nose caked in white powder. Parsons glanced at the two civilians—a similarly delirious man in a dark blue business suit and a woman in a cocktail dress. "And you two. Get up, you're under arrest for suspicion of aiding in criminal acts."

All three of them were quickly frisked and then put into handcuffs. They found a handgun on the woman and mobiles on both civilians, which Parsons took with him in an evidence bag back outside to the street level, where curious onlookers had gathered near the police line.

**Eva,**

**How is Outer Space? Just as you warned, my promotion isn't quite what I expected. The Military Commissariat has me traveling through the West European Military District as part of the district military provosts.**

He looked up from the letter he was typing on the extended keyboard of his mobile just in time to see the three suspects escorted into the police van.

**Still, it beats traveling with the MS Troops. By my third raid, I'm not really that worried. The military police keep me in the back and would probably take a bullet for me if they had to. **

He sighed and adjusted his folding cap. _If I could, I'd ask about the Peacecrafts, but it seems like both Zechs and Relena's files have been closed—dead and neutralized. Probably neither, but it's good enough for military work, _he thought.

**How long will you stay with the Space Forces? It doesn't sound like an assault on D-120 is in the works, but not a lot of news reaches us. **

**-E.P. **

He hit the send button just in time to hear one of the MP's shouting for him. "Lieutenant! Lieutenant, you should see this!"

Parsons was expecting more news about the three perpetrators they'd caught, but instead for the military police crowding around the radio set in one of their patrol vehicles. The small video screen was set international news, where a Dutch anchorwoman was narrating the resumption of hostilities as an OZ attempted to break Alliance holdouts in Northern Europe.

"Second Luey, we remembered that you were assigned to the Mobile Suit Troops before you came to us," a senior sergeant replied.

"Not just that," Parsons muttered, pointing at the screen. "That's the Ninety-Eighth Corsican out of the Mediterranean Air Army, I _flew _with them back during an investigation," he muttered. "It didn't end well."

He cocked his head. "What're hey doing? God, does anyone here speak Dutch?"

Another policeman leaned forward. "The 98th Battalion and 111th Combat Engineers Company broke the ceasefire with Alliance holdouts in Rostok. The media thinks this is the first of a multi-pronged assault across Scandinavia."

"All around the Sanc Kingdom," he said. "They're probably right."

Parsons climbed into the passenger seat and buckled his seatbelt. "I'm pretty sure we have a job to do here," he announced sarcastically. "Get moving."

**III**

"Kanna," Walker said, following his tallest subordinate into their section of _Barge_'s barracks. She was already standing at her locker, stowing her helmet.

Kanna turned to face him and her expression abruptly changed. Walker barely noticed her eyes twitch a bit before narrowing, as she stood at attention and saluted. It was her 'tell', a sign she was going treat something with full seriousness rather than her usual friendly boisterousness.

"Sir!"

Walker felt compelled to quickly return the salute. These changes of tone were rather rare and Walker didn't know what brought them on, only that he couldn't do the same.

"Please relax Kanna," he asked as she turned back to her locker and began peeling out of her lavender normal suit.

"I can count on you to be discreet, right Kanna-_kun_?"

The two of them glanced across to Mazuri, who was mostly undressed and holding his uniform in a neat, folded stack. He frowned dryly. "Oh, fine. I get the picture. I was going to go harass David anyway."

He left dramatically, leaving the two alone as Walker sat down in the bench in the middle of the locker room. Kanna turned to him, crossing her arms over her trademark red tank top. "What's botherin' ya', chief?"

"Could I pose a hypothetical?"

She scratched her cheek with a finger. "Sure."

"What if someone who was stalking you…a colonial civilian…managed to twist your arm into agreeing to passing on information to her concerning certain events in the colony you met in?"

Kanna stared at him.

"Hypothetically speaking," he repeated.

Kanna kept staring at him silently for almost a minute. "…could you just not do it?"

He stared at those large violet eyes. They'd grown wide again. _How did that never occur to me? It must have! Why wouldn't it? _Walker responded as slowly as she had. "That would make sense."

Another moment of silence. "Did something happen, Flight Lieutenant?"

"No," he said plainly, putting his hands together. "Not really."

Kanna stared at him, slightly nervous, as she stepped out of her suit. _I hope this isn't one of those nervous breakdowns I've heard officers have. This is how Walker would have one of those: very calmly and politely. _"Ooh-kay, sir," she said, turning back to her locker and starting to search its contents. "Can I tell you something bothering me?"

"Of course," he replied, walking over to the locker with 'WALKER' printed on it.

"You know how I believe you have trust whatever you see with your own eyes?"

"I believe so, yes."

"I've been thinking."

_Oh dear_.

"You know that Alliance pilot who died in the crash?"

"Yes?"

She bent over in her formfitting spandex pants, moving things around in her locker. "I don't think he's dead."

In the time that followed, Second Lieutenant Aretha Walker had heard of her brother's return from his first mission in space—the details of which she was only vaguely aware of—and sought him out. He was his usual cold, distant self, with a similarly cold greeting at his door.

"Can I come in?" she asked, though it wasn't a question. She stepped ducked under the arm he was resting against the door frame and looked around his quarters.

Just as she expected, he pointed this out. "I guess that wasn't actually a request. Please feel free to…" he began as she plopped down on the bed in quarters. He finally noticed she was holding something under her arm.

"…make yourself at home."

"I've got a gift for you, Oswald." She told him flatly. "That's a tradition in the Mobile Suit Troops, isn't it? A gift for the first successful mission after being transferred to a new branch?"

"Something like that," he told her, raising an eyebrow. He took a seat by his desk, trying to fix his tunic—Aretha had dropped in on him in a prim, formfitting uniform with spotless trousers. He didn't like how his younger sister was the smarter looking of the two, despite that ridiculous bleached streak of her hair.

She reached out from the bed, holding a rectangular present wrapped in dark blue paper at him. "Then here. Congratulations on your first successful mission in the Space Forces."

"I've actually served in the Space Forces before, back during the…"

"Just shut up and take it, _please_."

Walker obediently took the gift and held it in his hands. _Typically, when a family member gives you a gift, you're expected to open it, aren't you? _He was about to do so when Aretha suddenly shot up from the bed and glanced at her wristwatch.

"I'm really sorry, Oswald, but I need get going. Commander Roche is deployed with the fleet and he's…well he's asked me accompany him for the mission."

"…Roche Nattono?" he repeated.

"Yes, him. You were his adjutant briefly in Xinjiang? Apparently, the Walker name is now associated with competent assistants."

"…_now _associated?" he asked as the door to his room swung open, revealing Kanna alongside Dac and Mazuri. Bishop spoke first.

"Aretha?" he asked, sounding very surprised.

"David! I heard you were in my brother's unit, but he never writes, you know that?" she told him, taking his hand and shaking it. "It's good to see you again."

Dac smiled and looked up at her. "…what happened to your ha-…?"

"Dac you know. These are Flight Officers Kaneshiro and Mazuri," Walker interrupted him, likewise standing up.

"It's nice to meet you, sirs."

"Likewise," Mazuri assured her.

Kanna grinned almost uncontrollably. "So this is your sister, Taichō?"

"Don't see the resemblance? Most people don't, it seems."

Aretha stared up at her. "I'd love to stay and catch up, but I need to get to the primary hangar soon…"

"That's just where we were going, right Dac?" Mazuri replied, not missing a beat.

"We were?"

"Of course we were! We'll let Kanna and the lieutenant finish up here. Give you two a chance to catch up," he said, now all smiles.

The three of them left, leaving Kanna to watch them, still snickering, while Walker sighed and sat down behind his desk, trying to appear relaxed before Kanna turned back to him, beaming at him.

"She's _fun._"

"Compared to me, yes, probably very fun," he replied.

"You know what sir? Don't worry. I've got brothers and sisters and let me tell you…" she said, before laughing heartily.

"I see," he replied, before turning back to her. "How can I help you?"

By then, Kanna was holding something in his face—a large rectangular box, wrapped in dark blue paper, not unlike what he'd received from his sister. Another gift, a fairly _large _gift that.

"Here you go, Taichō, congratulations on our first successful mission in space."

"What's this?" he asked dutifully, still not taking it.

"A present!" Kanna said, laughing. "Come on, sir, you know how this works."

"No, I don't mean…fine, it's just I've been getting a lot of presents recently. First my sister, now you. I'm not used to it," he said, taking it from her.

"That's _two _presents, sir, now open it," Kanna pointed out incredulously as he carefully tore open the wrapping.

"Tamiya," he said, reading the corporate logo on the corner of the white carboard box before his eyes drifted to the rest. "It's a toy."

"A one-one-hundred scale Aries mobile suit. You know, getting a proper black one was harder than I expected!" Kanna said.

Walker shook the box briefly, as if "So it's a model?"

"Yes, you know, like the kind children and young people build for fun? You know fun, right sir?" Kanna jeered at him.

The joke seemed to dawn on Walker, or if not the joke, something else did. "Right, of course, I get it. Very fitting for an ex-engineer."

"Thank you! Finally!" She tapped the box with a finger. "They call it 'Technical Grade', because there's lots o' interior detail. Like a tiny plastic pilot or a tiny plastic fusion reactor. Cool, huh?"

She smiled wistfully. "'Lot nicer than the stuff I had as a kid. Then again, I never had a talent for it. Had my brothers do all the work."

"Would you believe me if I told you I didn't own models as a child?" Walker asked, pulling open the cardboard lid gently and peering at the various plastic runners inside, pressed with the shapes of individual parts of a 1/100 scale mobile suit.

"You're joking!" Kanna asked, genuinely surprised as far as he could tell. "They let you be an engineer after that?"

"My mother wasn't a fan of that sort of thing. She used to say that you had to make it yourself, otherwise it wasn't creative." He closed the box and carefully set it aside.

"I guess that's true," she admitted, sounding less enthused. "You could always paint it."

"I don't have any paints. Also, I don't think I'm good at it…" he admitted, before standing up and sticking out his hand. "I'm sorry, thank you all the same for the gift. It was a kind gesture."

Now looking alarmed, Kanna stared at him before shaking his hand carefully. "It's nothing sir. I hope one day, in my first command, my flight gives me a gift too." She looked around nervously. "I'll…go check up on the others and your sister. Make sure they're not goofing off or something."

She left without a further word, as Walker sat back down at his desk and rested his chin on his shoulder. He had hoped to get some writing done before all these interruptions, but he felt distracted even after they'd ended.

_7 April, After Colony 195. Colonial radicals acting in conspiracy launch Operation M. Five advanced mobile suits are deorbited on Earth. Unit 01, the only one successfully intercepted, is sunk in the Pacific. Unit 02 lands in North America. Unit 03 lands in the British Isles. Unit 04 lands in North Africa. Unit 05 lands on the banks of the Yangtze. _

He looked at the screen on his notebook computer, strumming his fingers against the desk before shaking his head and reaching for the shelf, taking out whatever gift Aretha had given him. Holding it in a hand, he realized it wasn't a book. He flipped the package over and tore through the wrapping paper, only to be genuinely surprised.

It was a framed portrait of his family—of what was probably the only photograph of all four of the Walkers: his parents, a toddler Oswald and a 10-month-old Aretha.

Sergeant Major Walker, as he always called his father, had died a year after Aretha's birth, almost to the day. As such, Aretha had no memories of the Alliance Army noncom who was killed in a colonial missile attack on the city of Washington. Walker only vaguely remembered him, and his mother always seemed oddly disinterested in the matter, as though she blamed the sergeant major for his own death. She was a passionate radical, a true peacenik and not just your typical middle-class compassionate neoliberal.

_How the two ended up together, I will never know._

He took after his father, if the photo meant anything: he'd been a neat, orderly man of discipline or rather, self-discipline. He had little interest in how other people lived and his career allowed for that. He was also a man of few words, which lent itself to his attitude on life.

Holding the portrait on his lap, he stared at the four of them, with his father in his olive drab uniform, black cap and stern jaw. In all visual evidence that existed of him, he seemed like the last person to form lasting social attachments, and to his credit, those he had formed he did not hold to long before he left this world. _I have no idea how he'd respond to something like Operation 'Daybreak', the Revolution or the Gundams. Particularly not the Gundams. _

Setting the portrait on top of model box, he stretched his arms and turned back to the computer, then typing rapidly above the first paragraph.

**Colonel Treize,**

**I am modestly optimistic about the 7****th**** Division's use of the new Taurus mobile suit. Having had the chance to use it myself, I think I'll be quite confident using it in a military situation, though I haven't had the opportunity for an actual combat test personally. **

Walker stared at what he'd typed out. _I'm honored that Treize requested I send him reports from the Space Forces, though I'm sure he's got a list of officers doing the same and a few of them are doing a better than I am_, he thought somberly.

**I am however very concerned about our intelligence weaknesses. Even with our cooperation with the colonies, seemingly basic operations are made unfortunately complex thanks to a lack of battlefield data. The divisions of the Space Forces could likely assault UESAETCOM in L1-D-120 tomorrow, and win, if we actually had some understanding of Alliance defensive capabilities. But we don't, leaving us stalling indecisively. Like any Mobile Suit Troops officer, I'm reluctant to praise the Military Commissariat, but we do desperately need some military intelligence organ to function properly. Our superior tactics and overwhelming firepower, by themselves, cannot win every battle. If the Alliance were to have developed a new type of weapon in space, as the colonies did with their Gundams, we would know about it until it was already deployed.**

He read through the short report, only to change the word 'modesty' to 'reasonably', and still feeling inclined to delete it and start again. _At least we don't need to worry about Alliance weapons development for the time being. Probably. _

Amid his pessimism, a small flash of inspiration struck him, and the dreary mental image of assumed Alliance troop deployments in the first Langrage point was replaced by the open, blood-stained cockpit of the Space Leo found in D-1307. He looked over at his mobile, resting on the corner of his desk and snatched it, looking up a number in his phonebook.

"Tycho? It's Walker. I was wondering if you could help me with something."

**IV**

The Defense Ministry of the Republic of Utah was actually just a number of military offices of the UESA Army and Air Force in the city of New Jerusalem, manned by the same Alliance officers and civilian employees of the Continental American Military District from years before. By appearances, life had not changed so much besides the blue-and-white striped flag of the republic in the place of the Alliance's red-and-gold flag. The halls were still filled with olive drab uniforms of the old regime, who carried on as though this had been the Alliance's plan from the start.

A Republican Guard commissioned officer strode stiffly through the halls of the ministry, stopping in front of the minister's secretary and presenting her with a scrap of paper. She read it, handed it back to him, and buzzed him into the office.

"Defense Minister, sir."

The Defense Minister of the Republic was meeting with his counterpart in the Foreign Ministry, the same man who'd been sent to negotiate with OZ in Old Denver.

"Captain, what's this about?" he asked, putting down his glass of water.

"Sirs, I apologize, but we have a priority communique from Outer Space."

The Foreign Minister sighed. "D-120 took longer than I expected. I can guess what this is about."

The Defense Minister took the scrap of paper and began reading it, while the Foreign Minister continued. "I appreciate the spot we've put them in, unfortunately, but there's nothing that can be done about it. Everything suggests that the prototype isn't even still in Colorado."

"That's not all…" the other muttered, his hands beginning to shake. "They've decided that there are going to be consequences."

"Consequences? What sort of consequences?"

The Defense Minister slumped onto the couch. "If the mobile armor prototype can't be returned to Outer Space, UESAETCOM says it has no choice but to 'divert reserves from an unsustainable frontline'." He looked up with tired, grey eyes. "They're threatening to evacuate the Midwest."

The Foreign Minister stared at him silently, the captain still standing at attention behind the couch. "What do they mean 'evacuate'? What could they possibly hope to accomplish? What do they hope to do with a half-dozen battalions worth of army mobile suits?"

He turned to the captain. "How was it that this was sent to you first? For goodness sake, the Foreign Ministry…"

"Foreign Minister, sir, I wouldn't know that. This only came a few minutes ago ourselves."

The Defense Minister was even paler than normal. "I don't even…all this over one prototype mobile armor?"

"What I want to know is whose idea it was to divert that mobile armor to the frontlines in the first place!" the Foreign Minister announced. Just as he did, his colleague suddenly stopped shaking and stared at the floor beneath him.

The prototype in question, known as EA-00MA, was no longer in Colorado as New Jerusalem had surmised. It had been transported by strategic airlifter to the Corsica Mobile Suit Works, where it had been dismantled and its parts put into storage alongside a number of old Leo mobile suit prototypes. Flight Officer Tal, under orders from Colonel Tubarov, had flown in from Europe to witness the whole process and then return with his findings.

"I hope Colonel Tubarov is more understanding than Lieutenant Colonel Brooks was," another flight officer told him. He'd apparently had some problems with Brooks over the mobile armor in the past. "I'll be in Outer Space for his next diatribe."

"Probably not, but at least he'll be busy in the meantime."

The officer nodded and they shook hands. "Good luck, Talik."

"And you too, Mr. Sogran."

**V**

The sector containing Space Fortress _Barge'_s overbridge command center, poised precariously over one of the two main beam emitters, was honeycombed with multiple briefing rooms, one of which was being used by a few officers from the 7th Strategic Aerospace Division. In uniform, out of formation, Eva Cebotari entered that briefing room to leave a note on the message board near the door with a thumbtack.

"Oh Eva!"

She looked over her shoulder: at the front by the projection screen, surrounded by a few officers sitting on chairs, was Lieutenant Colonel Marcus North Jr., the American commander of the Space Forces' 7th Division. She made it a point to be at least familiar with every lieutenant colonel in the Mobile Suit Troops.

"Marcus, what can I do for you?"

North smiled at her familiarity, gesturing at her to take on of the empty seats as the other officers left. "I heard you had a little incident on Luna," he told her calmly.

"Heard?"

"I watched the video. Apparently Miller wanted people to know what he'd done." He titled his head a bit. "You're not carrying those blades now, are you?"

Smiling, she held her white gloved hands at him, opening and closing them rapidly as though she were a magician performing for a child. He shook his head at her, unimpressed.

"Miller's already on his way back to Earth, to be buried with the rest of his squadron," she told him.

"And Brown?"

"Who?"

"The living one."

"I don't know."

"I thought you would know that, it falls into your domain, doesn't it?" North countered, smiling at her. "Eva, why _didn't_ we ever get together?"

She smiled back. "You're too old."

"Please, I'm not even thirty. And I still don't know how old you are," he mumbled sadly, looking away, while she stood up and left.

"Try and be more careful in the future," he told her cooly. "Not everyone likes having you around the way I do."

"That's the point, _sir_." She swung her hips just enough to be noticeable as she left.

Alone, North took out his mobile, tapped it and set it on his desk. "Who was the officer from our division who went to the archives on Luna again?"

"_Walker. He's a flight leader in Squadron 1, First Company._"

"Thank you."

Further down the length of the fortress, Walker briskly drifted down a major highway, pulled by a guiderail handle extending out from the wall, periodically having to shift form one rail to another. He was close to getting the hang of it, not slowing between rails, though he wasn't quite at the point where he could seemly swing around a corner as he'd seen veteran Space Forces officers do.

Walker precariously rebounded around a corner, quickly righting himself and drifting down the corridor where he saluted the Armonia Sisters, the two officers he was hoping to see. Unfortunately, he was still drifting, so he bounced awkwardly against the wall and had to spin himself around.

"Colonel Armonia, Flight Officer," he said as they returned his salute. "I have something for you from Mr. Nichol," he said, presenting her with a thick envelope.

"Good, I've been waiting for this…" the elder sister replied, still smiling at his little maneuver.

"And also to apologize on his behalf," he interjected. "I gave Nichol an emergency order concerning a supply incongruity with the new Taurus units, and it cost him his meeting with Representative Nguyen."

Soris looked up from the envelope and, with alarming accuracy, mimicked the dull, apathetic stare that Walker had already been receiving from her younger sister Luna.

"I'm sorry for whatever inconvenience this might have caused. If I'd known, I wouldn't have made my request so urgent. It wasn't..."

Soris cut him off with a forced cough in her right gloved hand, before rolling the envelope into cylinder-shape. "I see, Lieutenant Walker. Please be more careful next time, if you could," she said, her voice more than a little patronizing. The taller Soris then tapped Walker on his visor cap with the rolled envelope, as though she were a high school teacher.

"Don't let it happen again," she sang, turning around and floating away. Luna watched her sister leave before saluting again and drifting off after her, not having said a word. Walker stood still until they'd cleared the hallway and reached into the guiderail recess to grab a handle and be pulled down the hallway. With his free hand, he took out his mobile and redialed.

"Nichol, it's done." He listened for a response. "Yes, I know it's hearsay, I'll take it."

He came to the end of the rail and drifted onwards. "I see, thank you." Sliding open the keyboard, he began carefully typing out a message he to be sent to Maya Barton.

**Barton, your suspicions may have something to them. The Leo pilot, Andrew Schmidt, is alive and was recovered from D-1307. **

He tapped the send icon. The response from 'Maya Barton' was surprisingly fast—a rather happy, friendly expression of surprise and vindication that seemed wholly incompatible with the timid woman he'd met in New Birmingham. Another text followed, this one a straightforward question:

**Where is he, do you know?**

"No…I help you…so you…help me," he muttered softly as he typed. "Tell me…something…I don't know."

Another fast response.

**Oh yeah? Do you know there's an HLV that left low orbit a few hours ago?**

A surprised Walker floated in the corridor for a few moments. His mobile vibrated again as another message came through.

**Well? How about that, Mr. Smarty-Lieutenant? **

Walker had just put hand on his face, rubbing it when a third message came through.

**Hey, are you ignoring me?**

"Where…did this…H.L.V….leave orbit?" Walker was already anxiously considering the possibility she'd demand more information in return when his mobile vibrated. "Delta Gamma?" The two Greek letters meant one thing: a generic escape vector, one of a possible 576 transfer corridors. Pocketing his mobile, Walker threw himself down the corridor and into a major access hall. Adorning one of the walls was an old framed Alliance military map, displaying all 576 vectors and their paths over a flat projection of the Earth.

He found the vector he was looking for: easterly, Northern Hemisphere low latitude over Central Africa. _Delta Gamma._ It was then when it dawned on Walker: an H.L.V. suggested one thing, but acting on this sudden tip was tremendously risky and ill-advised. Still, low Earth orbit was littered with debris and junk of every type, including abandoned heavy lift vehicles. Even _Barge_'s powerful sensor array would need direct guidance to sort through that trash, just pointing it at a vector would only reveal a few hundred thousand pieces of space trash, that was being turned into slightly different pieces of trash over time. _Damn the Kessler Effect…_

Instinct told him he'd regret ignoring it, even though Walker didn't care to rely on instinct if he could help it. That was what planning was for, he'd always felt. _I haven't even considered if my lie to Colonel Armonia was even convincing. Thanks for making this complicated, Nichol, you couldn't just do me a favor could you? When this over, I'm going to look into these connections of yours with the Colonials…_

As he stood against the wall, staring anxious at the old map, another brainwave occurred to him and he looked up. Mazuri's words echoed in his head.

_"__…if the whole flight is being sent on this sort of busy work, shouldn't you just take out the mobile dolls__?"_

**VI**

Having narrowly escaped from OZ at the Singapore Cosmodrome, Duo Maxwell, the second Gundam pilot to arrive on Earth, had taken a very logical course of action: upon reaching low Earth orbit, he had killed his H.L.V.'s final stage engines and discreetly blended into the forest of junk circling from 160 kilometers over Earth and above. The stolen H.L.V. was not even the largest object in his vicinity manufactured by OZ for the Earth Alliance, much less last few centuries of space travel. This tactic was his best call to defeat OZ's surveillance, though it wasn't means perfect.

It was 11 August. Maxwell was acutely aware that he'd spent the last two weeks sitting in the cockpit of his Gundam 'Deathscythe', as it in turn sat inside the heavy lift vehicle. With the bare minimum of power needed to sustain life support, he'd done the math and calculated the best opportunity to complete a Hohmann transfer orbit that would put him in the middle of the second Lagrange point on the far side of Luna.

"I might be starving, but I'm lucky that I still had enough delta v.," he said, speaking to the only company he'd had for the last two weeks. He was right: as unloaded as the H.L.V. was, it barely had enough fuel in its final stage to make the required change in velocity and direction.

"Let's just hope OZ didn't catch that burn, eh buddy?" He was confident that his math was impeccable, but that was still a very long burn to stay undetected. "Hopefully by the time they realize we're not just some space junk bouncing around, it'll be too late."

While Maxwell continued on his elliptical orbit, the individual parts of OZ were slowly turning in sync. Nichol had learned of Walker Flight's sudden deployment—one manned machine and two mobile dolls—and had a feeling it was connected to his earlier request for information, but dismissed it. Representative Nguyen was meeting with the ambassador in L1-C-102 yet again, and he hoped to get ahold of the information Colonel Armonia had requested, even if Walker had conveniently taken the blame for his tardiness.

"Thank you for your cooperation," he said, trying his best to sound sincere to Nguyen's office. "I'll meet with His Excellency personally for final approval."

_How does Walker do this all the time? _He needed Nguyen's final approval for the information on colonial militia recruitment into OZ to be released for his report, otherwise there might not have been any need for Walker to lie.

As Nichol crossed through metropolitan C-102, the three mobile suits of Walker Flight departed from _Barge _under their own power, descending into low Earth orbit. They could get to the target zone fast enough for Walker, though he wasn't convinced he would find anything, even as he used his datalink to triangulate sensor data from both _Barge _and the local space stations.

_One of the great bluffs of OZ's military dominance is the effectiveness of Earth's orbital surveillance network. Those satellites and space stations are supposed to be able to track every object leaving and returning to Earth. But the network was full of holes—like in Operation 'M'—and the situation has gotten worse since the Revolution. And since then, we've had an uphill struggle to overcome those gaps. _

He checked the status of his two mobile dolls. _I envy you two. War machines that don't know anxiety. At least if there's nothing, only _I'll _look like a fool. _

Walker was close to giving up when there was a ping on the long-range scanners: the array detected something for just a fraction of second, among the satellites and space junk, appearing and then vanishing. Something that was unusual, strangely shaped and at a different temperature than the belt of debris around it.

"_Barge, _this is Arrow Actual," he immediately called out. "I just registered something, distance nine-zero-zero on the equator, but I lost it. Can you run a sweep at full-power?"

"_Affirmative, Arrow Actual._" Walker knew what happened next: _Barge _would turn so it could physically aim one of its powerful sensor dishes in that direction, running at full-power, far better than any mobile suit could hope to scan the area.

He waited for a few tense minutes. "_We see it, Arrow Actual. Congrats on the excellent call. It's definitely bigger than a mobile suit. Trajectory looks like…Eastern Eurasia. Wait, no…_"

"What is it, _Barge_?"

On the overbridge, the shift commander for that particular shirt was low in rank, but felt he was capable of handling the situation. No one had complained about the entire space fortress spinning on an axis yet, after all.

He consulted the primary display. "From the size of it, it may be an H.L.V.. If it is, it seems like the pilot modified his trajectory, trying to make it look like he launched from Siberia." The most immediately obvious trajectory was highlighted. "It's running cold though, it can't have just gotten here. Check it against the surveillance records," he ordered.

"Yes sir."

"Barge_, I still need an answer_," Arrow 1 chipped in, his face behind a helmet and biomedical data displayed in the corner.

"Checking against reports of similar data. Lucky for us, there haven't been that many H.L.V. launches of this class this month." A particular entry in the list of data in question was highlighted. "Here it is, H.L.V. out of Southeast Asia, 29 June. Best match." As soon as he'd announced his findings, the pilot's biomedical readings spiked violently.

In his cockpit, Walker's breathing had seized up in his suit. _Southeast Asia_. _Krist's Battalion in Singapore! _"_Barge_, this is Arrow Actual. I'm plotting a course to intercept, requesting reinforcements. I also need a datalink Earthside."

"_Earthside? Where?_" the voice asked, surprised.

"Ansembourg, specifically, the Main Armaments Directorate!"

"…A-affirmative, Arrow Actual. Getting you that connection now." The shift commander frowned and looked at the nearest bridge officer.

"Sir, should we go to combat alert?"

"Why?"

The younger man frowned. "Well, that's in the same time frame as the Gundams escaped from Singapore."

His glasses slid a centimeter down his face. "Shit. Forget the combat alert, get Nichol on the line!"

Another bridge officer called out. "That may take some time sir."

Inside his cockpit, Walker anxiously waited as a datalink across tens of thousands of kilometers linked him through video-conference to New Castle in Ansembourg. In the communications display screen in the upper-left corner of his forward primary, Treize Khushrenada appeared behind a desk, out-of-uniform. Walker had never seen him in anything else and incorrectly did what he always did: he saluted swiftly.

"Your Excellency! I'm very sorry to wake you!"

"_That's fine, Walker. I'm sure you had good reason._"

"I think we may have located one of the Gundams."

Listening patiently to Walker's overly-detailed explanation, Treize picked a bit of lint out of his sleeping robes and eased back at his desk. As soon as Walker paused, he spoke before he had a chance to continue.

"You made the correct call, Baronet. Given that I'm hearing from you, and not Lady Une, I'll assume she's unaware or otherwise indisposed and contact her directly. The Lady's developed the unfortunate habit of being out of reach of _Barge_, though not of Earth, during diplomatic visits."

"Yes sir, your Excellency!"

"Good luck," Treize told him softly before tapping his keyboard. The video datalink ended and he returned to his earlier conference. There was no video, with three lines of text in the middle of a single open window.

**OZ 20**

**INDIAN OCEAN**

**SOUND ONLY**

"That was your old subordinate Walker," Treize explained to the screen, his voice now a good bit frostier.

The voice came back electronically distorted and with some time delay. "_To be honest, I didn't expect that_."

"He was as exhaustive with his concerns as always, but fortunately for you, he did bring up an excellent point concerning the orbital surveillance network."

"_What was the big news?_"

"You'll hear soon enough. We'll speak again about the network, but I have some business that demands my immediate attention." Treize tapped the keyboard, disconnecting, before the other hand a chance to respond. _I'm not Walker, so it's not my business to be too helpful. _

Walker had managed to get his breathing and heartbeat back to near-normal levels as he sat in his cockpit, his eyes permanently fixed to the H.L.V. only a few hundred meters ahead of him.

"_Arrow Actual, Squadron Three from the engineering battalion is en route, ETA six-thirty._"

Now that he was breathing normally and not expelling more carbon dioxide than his body was used to in the oxygen-rich environment of his normal suit, a thought occurred to Walker. "Acknowledged _Barge. _When you report this, could you downplay the proximity of my original patrol zone to the H.L.V.?"

"_To who? Ambassador Une?_"

"To Major Cebotari."

**VII**

When Nichol found her, the ambassador was standing in the skyway that linked the twin towers that housed C-102's national administration. Accompanying her was Nguyen, along with Representative Song of L5-A-0206 and Representative Keaton of L2-V-08744, all returning from the All-Colonial Congress.

"While it's obvious that the public is vocally pro-defense, and pro-defense spending, there is a stalwart minority that remains anti-military, or at least anti-OZ, that is not just outspoken but politically connected," Keaton warned.

"There's no pleasing everyone, that's a rule of democratic government," Nguyen replied back, trying not to sound condescending but still confident in his point. "Politically connected or not, the pacifists can't expect _all _of us to concede to their political demands while they refuse even basic compromises."

"They've painted 'compromise' as a betrayal of principles, for obvious reasons. Where were any of them when the Alliance was on every street corner? Where was their Pacifism then?" Song asked.

"Their anti-OZ position isn't as flimsy," Keaton explained. "To the public anyway."

Nguyen was about to add something when Une cut him off calmly. "In order to secure the peace and coexist, both in the colonies and in all of Earth Sphere, we must have everyone's cooperation. Unfortunately, some are distrustful of OZ. They point to past mistakes," she said, looking out from the skyway.

She turned to them, looking almost hurt from their observations. "However, I believe that the day will come when even they will appreciate OZ's efforts here."

As usual, Nguyen couldn't agree more. "We also feel that many will change their minds in time. There's a difficult political battle on the road ahead."

"Those political battles aside, the colonies still practically lack the means to counter violence," Song lamented.

"That is why OZ is here," Une replied, sounding happier. "While OZ is present, I have no doubt that justice will be served."

Song smiled. "Well, if Lady Une says so, we needn't worry." Une had come through on each of her promises after all.

"Once peace spreads through Outer Space, even those who still harbor doubts will have to acknowledge the truth," Nguyen added.

"Yes," Une beamed back at them, just as Nguyen crossed to the center of the skyway.

"Colonel…Lady Une," he began. "A major…point of interest…has been discovered."

Une stared at him blankly.

"Colonel, please return to _Barge_."

"_Barge_?" Une echoed.

_She must be having another bout of diplomatic-tour-delirium, _he thought pessimistically. "These are orders from His Excellency, Colonel Treize."

"Colonel Treize…" Une echoed again faintly. It took a few moments, but the look of realization Nichol had been waiting for appeared on her face and her expression hardened.

When she spoke again, her tone had clearly changed. "I'll return to _Barge _immediately."

Using the trip from C-102 to the space fortress to figuratively and literally change from Ambassador Une to Lieutenant Colonel Une, complete with a hairstyle change, the commander-in-chief of Space Forces took total control of the escalating situation when she appeared on the overbridge. On the screen flashed a label: **H.L.V. 02 DE-GA**, indicating both its type and its trajectory for transfer from Earth.

"We've confirmed that it's an H.L.V. matching the models that left Earth while carrying a Gundam."

Une was elated again, though in a radically different way. "The Gundams are seen as evil, bringing harm to the colonies. They have great value as scapegoats. Have the Tauruse captured it immediately!"

Nichol was starting to enjoy himself as well. "And the pilot, ma'am?"

"Well that would depend on his appearance."

And just as quickly, satisfaction was replaced with confusion on Nichol's face. "Pardon me?"

She glared at him through her eyeglasses. "If he's ugly, let him live. If he's handsome enough to earn sympathy, kill him. We can't have anything influencing public opinion."

Nichol barely held back a disbelieving eye-roll. "Spare him if he's ugly?"

"That was a joke," she told him with a quick snort.

Nichol permitted himself to put his hand to his forehead for a moment. _OZ has always had strict codes governing our treatment of prisoners. Terrorists or not, OZ does not merely execute new captives, even if they are Gundam pilots. _He tried to hide his further irritation._ I guess I don't share Colonel Une's sense of humor. _

As the Space Leo troops moved in, Arrow Flight carefully followed. Close-range sensor readings—specifically, being able to read its serial markings on the outside hull—confirmed the H.L.V.'s origin from Stanford Raffles Cosmodrome.

"_Affirmative, confirming that it's one of the H.L.V.s from Singapore used to transport a Gundam_."

Walker felt almost as calm as he had hours earlier, when he set out with the expectation of finding nothing. _Poor Liu. If his machines weren't under maintenance for that Leo recover job in D-1207, he'd be leading the squadron that captured the first intact Gundam. _

Beagle Actual spoke up. "_No energy emissions detected, Arrow Actual. It's a miracle it went this far without refueling._" _A few days at most, and he'd be on the other side of the Luna. _"_Sir, it's possible that it's unmanned._"

_They have tried this sort of thing before. _"Yes it is. Orders are to capture it regardless. We'll tow it directly to Colony C-102."

"_Affirmative!_"

_I'm not thrilled with taking the Gundam directly to a colony, but I suppose having colonial militia combat engineers deliver the first intact capture to a colony is a public-relations victory Une couldn't pass up. _Walker watched as Beagle 1-2, flanked by Beagle Actual and Beagle 1-3, made physical contact with the H.L.V. and prepared to alter its course with his tow cable.

Beagle 1-2 got too close. No sooner was there a ping on the emission scans then most of the vehicle's nosecone—the dorsal-most part of the H.L.V. that housed the avionics and communications systems—exploded outwards. Not like an explosive charge or an ammunition detonation, Walker immediately noticed. More like something had heated it so fast that honeycomb structure had torn itself apart. Walker was already powered up his beam weapons when Beagle 1-2 caught what looked like a beam saber reaching out of the explosion, slicing apart an arm and then its torso. The magnetic field readings shot up so fast that the charts barely had time scale accordingly.

"_Beagle 1-2 is down! Fall back!_"

"All troops on combat alert!" Walker ordered. "Weapons free! Mobile dolls, form a perimeter at five-zero-zero and hold to engage!"

The rest of Beagle Flight didn't fare much better. The H.L.V. tore itself apart from the inside, flashing plasma and sparking magnetic fields, sending huge chunks outwards in all directions. Even as the Leos tried to dodge, a mobile suit emerged from the fireball and sliced them apart with its beam weapon—a particle loop contained inside its field, at the end of a long staff-shaped generator.

"_Watch out, the scythe's got reach!_"

Inside Unit 02, Duo Maxwell pushed his bangs out of his face and grinned devilishly at the mobile suits arrayed around him as the fireball dissipated. The Gundam's targeting computer highlighted the hostile contacts around him: the wreckage of cobalt blue Leos, roughly the same as the countless he'd fought on Earth aside from their extraterrestrial equipment. Past them, confounding the targeting computer, were a number of new mobile suits, black and angular, that Maxwell had never seen in combat.

"What an honor to be greeted by OZ's latest model," he jeered. "But anyone who come's knockin' so careless has to die!"

By then, the three Taurus units had put plenty of distance between themselves and the Gundam.

"_Mobile dolls, break formation and attack!_" Arrow Actual ordered. And with no hesitation, all three of them opened fire with their beam rifles, having already put the Gundam in their sights.

"Damn, they're fast!" Maxwell snapped, before his mobile suit began rocking from precise beam fire. A direct hit to the Gundam's ornate head caused a brief camera failure and he tried to target the Taurus with his vulcan cannons, only to find they were nonresponsive. _Then take this!_ He fired his rocket-launched buster shield at the nearest hostile, only to have it easily dodged.

"Damn, what the hell? What happened to the jamming systems?"

Gundam-02, having cleared the debris field, was now simply a medium-sized object floating in space, emitting radiation from every rocket engine along with its weapon. His ECM systems weren't intended to function in Outer Space, where he stuck out against background radiation like a sore thumb. Walker fired another three-shot burst from his rifle into the Gundam's back before pausing and zooming in.

"He's trying to maneuver. Target his vernier rockets!" he ordered, stowing his beam rifle. They were just a few shots from being turned into fuel-spewing craters in the mobile suit's back, and the Gundam, which was already been sluggish before, was maneuvering erratically as engines sputtered periodically. _He's not going anywhere. He might be able to transfer all the way to L2 in a mobile suit, but not without course corrections. _He checked the infrared camera. _And now he's not going anywhere that isn't anywhere more than an hour away without a normal suit. Of course, there's no way he's that big a fool. _

Watching plumes of oxygen shoot out from the small but expanding cracks around the cockpit compartment, he armed his beam cannon and aimed it directly ahead, putting the Gundam directly in front of him and matching its direction and velocity. He wasn't the best shot—there were better gunners in the 7th Division, much less in the First Recon Battalion or the other divisions. But hitting a near-stationary at this distance was practically the equivalent of target shooting. The mobile suit had stopped moving its arms and legs. _You can't just retrofit it for space. _

He toggled the zoom and put his targeting reticle over the Gundam-02's torso. It was one thing to kill a surrendered prisoner on the battlefield, a convenient crime, but a crime all the same. It was another to destroy an enemy who gave no indication of surrendering—either over radio or by physical motion—and wasn't following the laws of war. OZ had drilled that into him as a young man. He knew what he wanted to do, but he had his orders from Colonel Une now. He squeeze the trigger, charging the beam cannon, then tapping a switch to broadcast on the open channel.

"Gundam pilot, you're lucky I'm not a mobile doll."

Walker had his moment, and he shifted his aim just a fraction of a degree just as the cannon fired, bathing half the Gundam in a charged particle field hotter than the surface of some stars. In the core of the field, the Gundam's polymeric alloy and its special coating cracked and peeled apart, and the internal frame vaporizing into shining powder. Its beam weapon spun away before exploding harmlessly.

When the particle field dissipated, the Gundam was missing its right arm, all armor around it, and was no longer capable of sustaining fusion in its power plant. It floated rigidly through space, its energy emissions steadily declining, venting more atmosphere. For the first time, Walker considered the possibility that the pilot was either not wearing a normal suit or that he was, but it had been damaged in combat.

"_Arrow Flight, secure the mobile suit and tow it back to the colony! To the pilot of Gundam Zero-Two, if your antenna is still working, you're now a prisoner of the OZ Space Forces! At this moment, there is nothing you can do about it._"

**VIII**

The Grand Ducal Palace in downtown Luxembourg City was, as the name suggested, the official residence of the Grand Duke of Luxembourg, the country's head of state and a member of the Romefeller Foundation's governing board. As such, he was happy to share it with his old friend and chairman, the Duke of Liechtenstein. In his office, Dermail Catalonia looked over the cluster of reports delivered to him: some from Une's Legation in the colonies, some from the Military Commissariat's mysterious "Lyra", and a few from his own contacts.

He was supposed to be in a meeting, but continued with his usual juggling of responsibilities.

Colonel Tubarov was sitting at the other end of the room very patiently. "If now is a bad time, Your Grace…"

"No, no, Tubarov. I've been putting this off for too long, I just cannot abide by these technical details," he mumbled under his mustache. He put down the report he was holding. "You know, maybe I'm just an old fool, but there are times I wish war wasn't so inextricable tied to technology and logistics."

He looked up at the Mobile Suit Troops officer standing rigidly at attention by the large double-doors. Tubarov had brought him, though he hadn't said a word since he arrived.

"What's your name, son?"

"Abraham Tal, Your Grace, sir!" he replied, practically shouting.

"Abraham Tal, you're welcome to sit if you'd like. I may be wearing epaulets myself, but this isn't the military," he told him.

Tal relaxed a little bit, but otherwise didn't move. Dermail moved on.

"So do you really think you can work with them?"

"Absolutely, Your Grace," Tubarov assured him. "The so-called 'Gundam scientists' are practically clay in our hands. Can you think of anything worse than having a lazy sculptor?"

"Trying metaphors now, are we?" Dermail mumbled. "Some on the board might disagree, but I can't think of anyone I'd rather have in charge of Project 'Krepast' alongside the Mobile Doll Initiative. But you won't get Lady Une to relinquish control of Project 'Bliznets'."

"I'll accept that," Tubarov replied, a bit of growl in his voice.

Dermail glanced at Tal again briefly. "Have your team ready as soon as possible. I'm sure we can count on _Barge _to provide you with everything you could need, and I'll speak to Sir Edmund tomorrow."

"Thank you, sir."

Dermail began sorting the reports when there was a knock at the door—before he could even answer, one swung open and his granddaughter Dorothy entered, clearly excited. Remembering their etiquette, Tubarov stood up while Talik stood at attention.

"Dorothy! What I have said about interruptions?" Dermail asked, sounding a bit annoyed.

"I'm sorry, Grandfather, but I just received word: Cousin Treize's men have done it."

Tubarov frowned. "They've done what?"

Dorothy was practically dancing with herself now, and Talik awkwardly stepped out of the way just in time. "They've beaten a Gundam!" she sang aloud, spinning around and putting her hands together. "There was a battle in low Earth orbit, and the Gundam was defeated by the new Taurus troops!"

Dorothy danced in place happily in her rose-colored gown, while Dermail rose from his chair. For a second he just stood there, considering how long it'd taken them to come to this point. The resumption of open warfare on Earth, the overthrow of the Alliance, the level of destruction inflicted by just five mobile suits but had been unseen since the rise of the UESA. At the same time, a defeated Gudam was slowly being towed into C-102, OZ's colonial headquarters. He didn't know,

He turned back to Tubarov. "I'll call him tonight."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_Remember what I said a while back about 'whimsy'? I guess time will tell whether Maya will be a good character or a bad one—obvious inspiration aside. I'm definitely enjoying her though. North I'm more confident about—visualize Don Cheadle in _Picket Fences _or around the same time. Naturally, he'd make a great OZ commander. Who else would be slick enough to play opposite Laura Bailey's most famous anime role? Well, maybe Billy D. Williams, but we're shooting for someone a bit closer in the age group. _

_Anyway, perhaps the real star of this episode was the legendary 'Shinigami' Duo Maxwell. I hope I did his character justice, because you'll be seeing more of him come the next chapter as well. In the original _Soldier of OZ_, Walker didn't interrogate Duo, despite having been made the pilot who captured him with mobile dolls, something I regretted. Hopefully I'm not making the wrong call this time. _


	30. Attack on Barge

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 30 – Attack on **_**Barge**_

The young Colonial whom Walker knew as Maya Barton was standing deep in the crowd gathered along Victory Prospect, the primary avenue that cut through L1-C-102's capital ward and led directly to the Block 12 Spaceport. Behind a full police line, surrounded by an OZ military police detail, was a flatbed truck flanked by a number of cranes. On the flatbed truck, was a crippled, inoperable mobile suit, Gundam-02. Its fusion reactor was compromised, its servomotors wrenched apart, and it was missing an arm.

Standing in heels, Maya managed to see the procession move, as other Colonials gathered to discuss the sight. Just to the side of the mobile suit, surrounded by OZ offiers, was Duo Maxwell. The press was practically ecstatic, as she could see from an anchorman reporting from a newsroom on a huge TV display mounted on front of a warehouse.

"_Last night, one of the extraterrestrial Gundams, known for the destruction they've visited on Earth, was shot down OZ's Space Troops, and its pilot has been placed under arrest. The pilot's background has not been confirmed yet, though OZ has said that his arrest will assist in their eradication of guerilla organizations in space. Many colonial governments have announced their intent to cooperate in this matter. It's hoped that, with the colonies cooperation with OZ, peace can be returned to Outer Space._"

Just a few minutes earlier, two OZ officers had lifted the injured pilot out of his cockpit and onto his feet, half-dragging him in front of the flatbed truck. With that, the crowd had gone from merely curious to ecstatic: the pilot was a still a boy, dressed in black.

Being tall paid off; Maya arched her head over to get a look at him. He _was _a boy, wearing what looked like a black clerical shirt and riding breeches. Nearby behind the police line there was a news reporter was anxiously shouting into a camera.

"A representative from the Colonial Congress has confirmed that the Gundam's pilot is Duo Maxwell, a fifteen-year-old American registered to Colony L2-V-08744. It appears this young man is one of the five Gundam pilots who landed on Earth in April. We've been told that he will be held temporarily at OZ's legation on the colony to be interviewed by colonial and military leaders, then transported to the _Barge _space fortress. The mobile suit known as 'Gundam' will be inspected by Representative Nguyen and the Prime Minister, then returned to OZ custody."

"Damn the Gundams!" a young colonial screamed just off-camera. The microphone boom operated promptly shoved him out of the way as he continued shouting in repetition. A few people copied him, while the uniformed police tightened their grips on their grenade launchers and stun batons. The police in C-102 were not known for their tolerance of misbehavior.

"For God's sakes, get on your feet," the officer holding up Maxwell's right arm whispered, looking around. "Have some pride."

"Eh, I've never been one for pride," he mumbled back while smiling.

"Well, you're not going back into your busted machine," the one to his left snapped. "Even if we have to drag you to the ambulance."

Maxwell was only visible for a few minutes before he vanished into an ambulance with two officers, cameras flashing nonstop the whole time.

The crowd had begun to shout in unison now, as a few angrier locals got dangerously close to the police line, shaking their fists angrily. It could be heard in repetition from the inside of the ambulance. The prisoner laughed. "What's that, Chinese?"

"Yes," one of the officers mumbled.

"What are they saying?"

The officer listened to the chanting. "_Ni-bu-shi-wo-men. _You aren't us. Or, less literally, 'Not in our name'."

**II**

While the Gundam was being slowly transported in as public a manner as possible, the flight lieutenant who captured it arrived at the legation grounds by jeep, still wearing his normal suit. Walker didn't have much experience with prisoners. In the old days, the Special Mobile Suit Troops almost never dealt with prisoners-of-war, beyond taking them. They were the domain of the Alliance Army, who had a whole management system for the proper, legal treatment for prisoners—dozens labor camps, primarily agricultural, where they were held cheaply and effectively. After the Revolution, those said camps now held thousands of transient ex-Alliance, mostly officers waiting to be processed through the system and returned to their nation of origin. That was now the domain of the Internal Army.

The prisoner, Duo Maxwell, was a high-priority illegal combatant, compared to General Gwinter Septim III, a high-priority legal combatant. As such there were three people assigned to him: the capturing officer, himself, the investigating officer from the Military Commissariat, and the officer from the holding facility, in this case a colonial officer from C-102.

_It's not surprising that no one is exactly sure how to handle this situation. He might be treated as a civilian terrorist or a military captive. We'll have to see. _Walker scratched his brow underneath his goggles, before removing them. "Well, Earth does."

A short lift ride brought him into the underground base directly beneath OZ's embassy. A noncommissioned officer saluted him as the doors opened.

"Lieutenant Walker, they're ready for you."

"Thank you. Who else is here?"

"Second Lieutenant Greely and Senior Sergeant Khan. They're the two militiamen who oversaw his transfer here."

_A whole twenty blocks I'm sure, _he thought as he un-holstered his pistol and left it at the security checkpoint, then detached his helmet. He put his goggles into the helmet and set it aside with his pistol.

Taking a deep breath, he entered the room and was greeted by four saluting officers whom he suspected were all militiamen. He didn't salute back and promptly took a seat at the desk directly under the lamp. Duo Maxwell was sitting in an office chair next to it, his arms bound behind the back. He looked injured, though not severely, and thoroughly exhausted—it was what you'd expect from a pilot who'd spent a few weeks in a mobile suit in orbit. Walker waited for him to open his eyes.

"I'm Walker, commander of the unit that captured you." He sat down behind the desk and paused. "I wasn't expecting a child to be piloting that Gundam," he informed him calmly.

This was intended as a statement of fact—Maxwell just happened to not like it. "Well excuse me!" he snapped, leaning forward. Immediately, Greely and Khan held him back. "Have I wounded your pride?" he smirked.

"Not compared to how your pride as suffered. You'll likely be executed. The civilian response to the execution will unite the colonies." That was lie, based on what Walker knew, but he felt no remorse engaging in some deception. "When we were fighting you on Earth, I never expected we'd use the Gundam pilots in such a manner."

"Why you son…!" Maxwell was briefly cut off when Khan delivered a stiff chop to his back with a firm hand. "Bastard…damn you to hell!"

Walker crossed his harms while giving Khan a humorless look. "Are we done here?"

Khan grinned back. "When he comes to in a few minutes, I'm sure he'll be less rude."

"I hope so," he muttered back, checking his wristwatch, worn on the outside of his suit.

Just as Khan had predicted, Mawell wasn't actually unconscious, as his head movements and nonsensical mumbling demonstrated. He regained enough strength to form cogent sentences in less than five minutes.

Walker decided to start over. "Good afternoon. I'm Flight Lieutenant Walker, the commander of the mobile suit force that defeated your Gundam and captured you." He paused again. "You're Duo Maxwell."

His head bobbed back and forth. "You want a medal?" he slurred out.

Walker reached into the collar of his suit and pulled out his Order of the Red Banner, pointing the red, white and gold medal at him so it twinkled in the light from the lamp. "I've gotten one already. I've fought the Gundams twice in the past. I've been shot down twice in the past as well."

Maxwell arched his head back deliberately this time. "And here you are."

"And here _we _are," he corrected him.

"I'm really losin' my touch," he muttered.

"'No one who sees the God of Death shall live.' I believe that's how it goes," Walker said. "We found your flight recorder, though we won't access your machines main computer until after the colony's government gets a look at it." This was all accurate.

"I only fought the first, third and fourth Gundams," he explained. "Not yours."

Maxwell made the effort to look him in the eye. "First, third and fourth?"

"The variable fighter-type, the ranged assault-type and the Maganac one." As Walker expected, Maxwell's eyes briefly lit up with understanding, then dimmed again. "Not yours with the ECM equipment."

"Maybe that's why you're still alive," he offered.

"It might be. Or maybe I should have been fighting them in Outer Space," Walker replied, keeping his voice leveled.

Duo gave a snort. "Well, you know what they say…"

"You can't just retrofit Gundams to fight in Outer Space?" Walker replied, a little too quickly.

"That's cruel, man."

"If we wanted to be cruel, Maxwell, I'd…" he began before cutting himself off. He stared at Maxwell across the table, debating on what to do next. He imagined a braver, more reckless version of himself resorting to physical intimidation. He would grab the Gundam pilot, who, despite being smaller and younger, would probably easily fight back. Then the guards would intervene, and as skilled as he was, Maxwell would have little resort against all of them, at once, with his hands bound. A few bruises or broken bones wouldn't kill him, in fact he was probably used to that sort of injury more than anything.

He did nothing, though. Even if they were going to execute him, there were regulations, procedures for dealing with captives. _'Terrorist' is such a vague, ineffectual word anyway. The use of terror is barely distinguishable from any other use of force. That's why we call you 'illegal combatants'. _

They'd sat in silence for a few moments. "So now what?" he finally asked.

"I think I'll hand you over to the Military Commissariat and let them interview you further."

"Who?"

"OZ's department that oversees recruitment. They also oversee criminal investigations, though normally within the military. The alternative is to hand you over to a civilian court in one of the colonies. You wouldn't be eligible for any national court on Earth."

Maxwell leaned back in his chair, smiling mockingly, his eyes closed. "I guess you'll do whatever you want, won't you?"

"Not what I want, no. But you won't like it either. If you think the Mobile Suit Troops have caused problems for you, wait until you find yourself dealing with the Military Commissariat."

**III**

"_Doctor_."

Eva Cebotari broke the hypnotic trance of Earth's visage through the window of the small military shuttle that was ferrying her from _Barge _to C-102, then put a finger against her right ear.

"Go ahead."

"_There's been a report from the Department of Homefront Security, in Colony D-1307._"

Easing into the seat, she closed her eyes. "The colony where that Leo was found?"

"_Yes ma'am, but it's an unrelated matter. Apparently, the Colonial State Library tracked a user looking up government records on intercolonial politics dating back twenty years._"

She closed her eyes. _Around the time Heero Yuy was assassinated. _"And?"

"Well, those government records were classified by D-1307's Alliance government, and they haven't been declassified. They wanted to know if this was OZ's domain now."

She gave an annoyed smile. _If OZ's goal was to somehow erase the memory of Heero Yuy's assassination, shouting at every street corner about the war effort against the Alliance rule that began after that event in earnest would be stupid. I hope everyone knows that. _"Thank the D.H.S. for their time and diligence, but tell them it's not our area."

"_Yes, ma-_…" she replied before Eva ended the call.

"Who was that, ma'am?"

Eva recognized the voice of one of her uniformed subordinates, Lieutenant Hopkins, floating down the aisle. "One of OZ's missions in the colonies with nothing important," she told her, not opening her eyes. Nearby, her mobile vibrated on the armrest tray.

"I see. I wanted to ask, Major, why don't we just have the Gundam Pilot…"

"Duo Maxwell," she said, hearing her mobile vibrating again. Without opened an eye, she reached forward and took her mobile, swiped open the screen, and accepted the message sent to her.

"…have Duo Maxwell transferred over to Space Fortress _Barge _by the guard detail already with him?"

"Because there is a chance, if C-102 decides to exert jurisdiction, Maxwell may not leave that colony, dead or alive. They could keep OZ from possessing the pilot, if not the mobile suit."

Hopkins nodded slowly. "I see. So it's true what they say."

She opened one eye. "What's that?"

"OZ does not operate on colony time."

Hopkins stared at her, apparently pleased at his observation, and she shook her head in disappointment before holding her mobile in front of her face. When she opened her eyes, she found its screen was filled with an image taken from D-1307's Colony State Library CCTV system, of a young man inconspicuously patrolling the hallways in a sweater in jeans.

**IV**

"So what was he like?"

"What do you mean?"

Flight Lieutenant Dmitry Chernenko smacked him on the back. "What do you mean, 'What do I mean'?"

"Sorry," Walker muttered. "Well, he's very young. As young as the pilot of Unit Zero-One, I'd say. Anglo-American. Maybe a bit short. With a big head."

Chernenko blinked and rubbed his scar briefly. "Because he's short, you mean?"

"No, it's an expression. He's very prideful."

"Oh. Of course."

The two flight lieutenants stood on a gantry over the Gundam, watching C-102 government officials circle around with their cameras and scanning equipment. There were even three of them wearing radiation suits, even though OZ had ascertained that the Gundam was now completely inert, having had its remaining fuel drained. It was clear they were trying to learn as much as they could before they inevitably handed over the dangerous weapon they had no experience with over to the Space Forces.

"You know, the rumor floating around is that Une's a bit on edge with you running into a Gundam while on a self-requested patrol," he said, sounding a bit incredulous.

"I was aware of that. I have no idea what she'll do next, but I can't imagine that it'll be good for the everyday hierarchy on _Barge_. Things were already a little strange."

"Like they say, no act of valor goes unpunished. One day, you should tell me where you got that useful bit of information from, comrade."

"One day in the future I may, but not now," Walker replied.

Chernenko sighed again, glancing around. "Where is this place anyway?"

"You didn't see the memorial? There was an Alliance Space Forces base here until 'Ninety-Four, when guerillas from the Colony Liberation Organization destroyed it with bombs. Hundred-and-First Separate Battalion. Killed a few dozen soldiers and a little girl in the nearby suburb, daughter of someone who worked on base," Walker explained.

"Really, this place? I remember hearing about that on the news. They arrested something like two-thousand colonials after that, didn't they?"

"And they'd probably still be sitting in prisons if the Alliance hadn't fallen," Walker speculated. The whole base was abandoned until now, I guess space is at a premium."

The two turned back to the Gundam, as the inspection team kept poking around in it. "What do you think they'll do with him?"

"I'm not sure," Walker told him. "If he was captured on Earth, as planned, he'd spend the next year in and out of military courts, but it's a jurisdictional nightmare up here. If all the affected parties agree to execute him, he'll probably be dead, and that will be it."

Chernenko nodded. "I suppose we're not as civilized as we thought," he muttered, putting a hand on his waist.

Walker put his helmet back on, attached the air hose, and activated the magnetic seals. "I'll see you back on _Barge_.Sorry for calling you out here. I should be running the escort back…"

He laughed. "Never apologize for giving someone an easy delivery assignment. There are units being diverted for C.A.P. at L2, looking for the Arroway Fleet, and I just have to babysit a defeated Gundam."

"Must be odd for an ex-Special Recon man," he teased him. Chernenko stuck out his tongue briefly, before turning to leave, a grin on his face.

**V**

"_Damocles 2-1 to HQ, confirming we've engaged the _Ganymede_! Requesting reinforcements!_"

"_Acknowledged, Damocles Flight. We'll see what we can do about those reinforcements._"

In her cockpit, Flight Lieutenant Ogasawara Emi looked around angrily as she watched fire pass dangerously close to her. "What the hell does that mean, 'we'll see'?"

"_It means we're out on combat area patrol, and we're alone!_" F/O Syed Khan replied over the channel. "_Evade, evade!_"

"_Second flight, launch and intercept, heading two-one-five!_" Emi ordered, as she glanced at her radar, then at her forward screen. The EASFS _Ganymede_, lead ship of its class, had activated its primary catapult along the bow of the ship and with zoom magnification, she could see it deploying Leo troops.

OZ's elite First Recon Battalion had two Taurus rapid deployment craft that region of the Second Lagrange Point, and their associated six Taurus troops. Their combat area recon was supposed to turn up nothing more than a single Leo carrier—instead they faced BC-68, its six missile tubes, four capital ship-grade double beam turrets, and whatever mobile suits it was carrying.

"That's enough firepower to threaten a colony, much less six mobile suits," F/O Tsujimoto grimaced from the cockpit of the first Taurus carrier before shoving the shoulder of the pilot sitting next to her. "Put us at thirty-two-fifteen-eleven, behind what's left of that frigate!"

"Yes ma'am!"

The _Ganymede_'s captain, a veteran Alliance Space Forces captain wearing the standard brown UESA normal suit over his uniform, watched out the forward viewports just as the armored shutters closed over them. The armored viewports, now blocked, were replaced by digital monitors and he calmly turned to approach his seat along the C-in-C tower.

"Soletta's Team has cleared the hangar. The second flight will finish deploying in two-hundred seconds! The catapult hangar door will be closed!" a crewwoman announced, wearing the same normal suit, along with her comrades.

"Captain, we're connected with the rest of the fleet."

"Affirmative," he replied, floating up to his seat and leaning over the armrest-mounted computer. "Commander Arroway?"

A senior Alliance officer, her face heavily distorted from interference, nodded. "_How are the new countermeasures working, Captain?_"

"Very well, ma'am. The Taurus flight didn't even detect us until we were in engagement range. The ECM system was well worth the time spent in dock."

"_Excellent. You should be able to make short work of a half-dozen Taurii._"

"We're looking forward to bloodying OZ's nose, ma'am," he assured her, as she disconnected and the video was replaced by the emblem of the UESA Military Space Forces.

"Sir, both carriers are too maneuverable for our long range guns to track."

He sat comfortably in the seat, high on the bridge, and put his arms together. "Lay out supporting fire for Soletta's Flight and increase engines to full power. Let's see if we can't cut them in half."

"Aye aye, sir!"

A few kilometers away from Nabiki and a few dozen kilometers from the _Ganymede_, three more mobile suits launched from the Taurus rapid deployment carrier, as a flight of OZ-06SMS 'Space Leo' mobile suits moved to intercept it from below. The faster anti-fighter guns opened up with rapid bursts, spraying in their general direction uselessly, as the _Ganymede _closed the distance.

"_Goddamn it, they finally got their screen up. I don't think we can close to cannon distance, Damocles Actual._"

"_That's what they think. Take anti-mobile positions, shoot down every last Leo!_" Emi barked. "_In the meantime, they can have their damn screen_."

All six of the flight were soon in mobile suit mode, training their beam rifles on the incoming Leo troops, who did what they could: maneuver out of fire while trying to flank the OZ unit. Even as their numbers increased, the opposing fire grew heavier.

"_We'll never flank them at this rate, Captain!_"

The lead mobile suit, an OZ-06SMSK with a shield mounted on its shoulder, snapped a response. "_Target the carriers, do anything to break their positions!_"

"_Yes ma'am!_" A flight of four Pioneer Leos broke off form the main group and descended on closer of the two carriers, which was already firing its RCS thrusters to break off. It wasn't long before they were in engagement range and used their beam rifles, only to have their fire bounce harmlessly off their large armored bows.

"_Circle around and…_" The secondary flight leader was interrupted when a Taurus shot off the machine's arm and most of its antenna, then followed it up with a shot that punched clean through the cockpit door and ruptured the deuterium fuel cell, killing him instantly. The other troops turned to see the full Taurus flight aiming at them.

_Six Taurii versus…eight Leos, plus the possible twelve they were carrying aboad the ship. _Emi did the calculations in her head—they could destroy the mobile suits, but the cruiser, with its modern weapons and its nonstandard electronic countermeasures could be a serious threat. _As much as I hate to admit it, we're better chasing them off or retreating_.

"Damocles Flight, form a perimeter around the Pioneers while they target the carriers!"

"_Wait, we're going to be the bait?_"

"_Sorry, Nabiki_," Damocles Actual replied as it maneuver along the edge of the rapidly-forming circle. Almost half of the Leo troops would soon be in the trap and they were already under fire. Damocles 2-1 and 2-2, separate from the others, began tracking the remaining Pioneers, who were finding it harder and harder to flank anything.

"_Iglesias, they're on your six! Jink!_"

"_I can shake them ma'am!_"

"_Iglesias, bug out!_"

"_I can make it, I'm almost…_" The Pioneer leader was cut off when Damocles 2-1 fired its powerful beam cannon, sending a lethal particle wave through the middle of the Leo troops, immediately liquefying two of them and crippling a third. They broke up immediately, the crippled machine spinning erratically with a trail of flame following it.

The bridge crew of the _Ganymede_ watched with dread as the Taurus troops proceeded to clearly outfight their Alliance counterparts, the forward display's unit markers steadily turning from white to red as units were destroyed or otherwise lost contact. Still sitting in his seat, the captain's face had lost some of its confidence.

"Are they within range?"

"Thirty seconds, sir!"

"To hell with it, open fire! Main guns, target the center of the enemy flights!"

"We can't track them, sir!" the nearby executive officer reminded him.

"I don't care, we need to buy time for our mobile suits! All anti-fighter guns, cover our troops!"

His XO turned to him, sweating a little. "Sir, it's too late for them. We need to pull back the captain, she can't kill six Taurus mobile suits."

"Just…give them a little longer…" the skipper insisted, leaning towards the forward display. One of the points, labeled 'Archer 1-1', danced around against the stars, dodging bursts of fire.

Emi was beginning to notice it too. Even as she destroyed another Leo, blasting him apart at long range, an alarm ping barely warned her in time to vacate a space that was filled with beam fire from the shield-carrying Leo. "Fast bastard, isn't he?" she snapped, as she put her target reticle over the machine. She was about to squeeze the trigger when her body rocked forward in her cockpit; something had hit her, and her cockpit displays flickered.

"_What the fuck was that?_"

"_Shoot her, Captain!_" one of the Pioneers screamed, now holding on Emi's Taurus by the front.

Inside the Command Leo's cockpit, the young pilot clenched her jaw and squeezed her trigger—just as Emi wrenched her flight stick and spun both of them around with her vernier rockets. The team leader's fire raked along the Leo's booster pack—when it was emitting too much gas and fire to be any further use as a shield, Emi tossed the limp machine aside and raised her beam rifle to return fire. By then, the Command Leo had broken off while firing at a mobile suit that had come to the Taurus' aid.

Indira used her machine's empty left hand to absorb the barrage of weak beam fire before it ended abruptly—the Leo's power cell was depleted. "Give it up, there's no escape!" she ordered over the open channel.

The voice of a surprisingly young woman came back. "_Like hell, Zodiac!_"

Before Indira could respond with her beam rifle, the Leo tossed its own weapon at hers, which she was able to deflect just in time to see a strange flash from the Leo. A second later, a long, shimmer length of wire emerged, spinning towards her on small rocket.

"_What the…shit! The Leo's got a detcord harpoon!_" A second later and Indira was proven correct when the length of wire exploded brightly, cooking her mobile suit's anti-beam coating for a few seconds and scrambling her main camera for just as long. The Leo took the few seconds it had to activate its beam saber and charge Damocles 1-2, hacking off its left arm.

"_Indira!_" Emi screamed as she opened fire on the Leo, forcing it to back off.

"Damn it, if I had another second…" she muttered in her cockpit, just barely able to keep dodging the fire. "Archer 1-2! Romeo, are you out there?"

"_Captain Soletta_," the voice of the _Ganymede_'s captain replied instead. "_We've split apart the Taurus carriers, return to ship immediately!_"

"Sir, I can beat them!"

"_Captain, that's an order!_" his voice boomed in her helmet. With her left hand she felt her Alliance Space Forces patch sewn on the shoulder of her tan normal suit and struck her fist against the nearby panel.

"Yes sir." With a jerk of her joystick, she brought the _Ganymede _into her forward view and accelerated towards it, as the cruiser laid down covering fire. The Taurus troops returned in kind, but their beam rifles couldn't penetrate the thick armor facings, and the covering fire quickly increased in density, its massive double-barreled turrets turned to face them.

"_Damocles Actual!_" Damocles 1-3 was still firing its beam rifle. "_I don't think those reinforcements are coming, Emi!_"

"Yeah, I can see that, Carlos!" Emi yelled back as she threw her machine into a jerking, rapid upwards spiral, as the _Ganymede_'s primary starboard turret fired a blast underneath her. A direct hit from those guns would have obliterated a Taurus, but they had trouble tracking even the Leo troops, and closing the distance didn't help.

Indira's mobile suit had regrouped with two others from the second half of the Damocles flight, firing its beam rifle with its one remaining arm. "_Alert, the _Ganymede_'s hangar is opening up_!"

"_Big mistake, Alfies_." With a quick burst, Emi threw herself into the _Ganymede_'s twelve o'clock, above the horizon, and armed her beam cannon. As anti-fighter fire rained down around her, she lined up a shot with the now-open central hangar, underneath the command tower.

"_Emi, watch out_!" There was a black blur in front of her followed by a flash. By the time she realized a Taurus had thrown itself in her line of sight and absorbed a particularly nasty burst of point defense fire, the _Ganynede _had already started turning starboard. Some of the _Ganymede_'s crew barely got away in time to avoid squashed by a violet Leo, scrapping along the catapult, facing outwards. With her machine lying on its back and having drawn the small beam carbine it had stored on its right thigh, Soletta kept squeezing her trigger, forcing Emi to keep dodging. She was still firing as the hangar's shutters closed, scorching the inside bulkhead.

On the bridge, the commanding officer drifted from his seat, taking his XO's hand to steady himself.

"Sir, we've recovered Archer Actual."

"After completing rotation, lower pitch twelve degrees and return to full power once we're on our escape vector." The _Ganymede _shook sharply as a beam cannon carved through some of the armor plates between the command tower and the port beam turret. "And close the bulkheads on levels two, three and four on the affected sections!"

"Aye aye, Captain!"

The Taurus troops watched the _Ganymede _retreated from the combat zone, their fire dying down.

"_Lieutenant, we're not going to pursue_?"

"Negative, Damocles 2-3," Emi muttered , crossing her arms and leaning into her seat. "No reinforcements, no chase."

"_We could take a _Ganymede-class, _ma'am!_"

"Probably. And it could destroy us if we get sloppy again," she warned. "Regroup, then we'll link up with our carriers."

"_Yes ma'am._"

In the large, painfully empty hangar directly underneath the command tower, the _Ganymede_'s commanding officer stared at the Leo sprawled out on the floor, now pinned down with mooring cables. It was pockmarked from glancing fire and had holes in its booster pack, some of which were spilling out clouds of gas. The cockpit swung open on its exploding bolts and its pilot climbed out. Soletta jumped out and drifted towards the captain, undoing her suit's seals and yanking off her helmet: she had long, curly dark locks, darker skin than the captain and piecing green eyes. She landed at his feet and saluted swiftly.

"Sir, we're fleeing?" she asked, practically yelling. The hangar crew glanced at her nervously.

"Yes, Captain, we are."

She lowered her arm. "Why?"

"The _Ganymede-_class is a robust, flexible cruiser. But it's still intended to operate in groups," he told her humorlessly. "We scared OZ's Recon Battalion, that will have to be enough."

"But sir…!"

"That is _all_, Captain Soletta." The CO turned and leapt away, the point of all of this still plainly obvious to Soletta: even with pilots like her, the Alliance Space Forces Mobile Suit Troops were no match for OZ, and if the war came down to mobile suits, as it seemed it would, they were doomed.

**VI**

Duo Maxwell was roused back to consciousness by a low-current, medium-voltage shock from a baton held by an OZ military policeman, jabbed in his back: nonlethal, though hardly legal even in this case.

Maxwell had a muscular spasm that nearly shook him out of his chair and bit down on his lip to hold back the cry of pain. When his vision cleared a little, he realized a rather tall, rather pale woman was standing in front of him, leaning against the desk, in a dark blue blazer and an unbuttoned blouse. She was flanked by two familiar looking OZ officers.

"You weren't waking up," she told him in a breathy tone.

"Yeah, I wonder why," he replied incredulously, once he stopped twitching. His acute hearing picked up the sound of the MP sliding the electroshock baton into its holster on his belt.

The tall woman took him by his hair and pulled his head back, peering at his features inquisitively. She smelled faintly of perfume, but otherwise sterile, like the air in a colony near the atmosphere processing stations. She moved his head back and forth a few more times until he yanked his head back. "Like what you see, pretty lady?" he snapped, half-angry, half-snide.

She leaned back on the desk, crossing her legs. "'If he's ugly, let him live. If he's handsome, execute him immediately.' Instructions from Colonel Une."

"Well, in that case, I'm screwed, aren't I?" Maxwell told her smugly. The pretty lady gave him a half-smile. "I thought so."

She began removing her blazer leisurely, letting it hang from her arms. "Khan, Greely, leave."

They both saluted. "Yes, ma'am!" To his surprise, they left the interrogation room without a further word, as Eva sat on the desk, blazer half-on. He waited until the door slid shut before saying anything further.

"So you must be from the 'Military Commissariat', huh?"

She nodded, resting her arms behind her back. Either she was worried about stretching out her blazer or just enjoyed sticking her chest out as she leaned back. Maxwell wondered if this was a ploy or she was just eccentric. "I have a good idea of just who you learned that from, a young man who tends to explain things he maybe shouldn't."

"I dunno', I thought it was kinda' nice," he told her, before glancing around. "Speakin' of which, would you mind answering a question yourself?"

Eva just kept smiling, which he took as an affirmative.

"Why I am still here?"

She looked away briefly, then repeated the line. "'If he's ugly, let him live. If he's handsome, execute him immediately.' Those were the orders from the commander of Space Forces." She turned back to him. "Do you know it's not up to us?"

"'The hell does that mean?"

"The second you stepped onto C-102, you entered this colony's legal jurisdiction. Which means even if we could, legally, try you in front of a military court, we'd need Representative Nguyen's say-so."

He cocked his head and stared at her, first at her blouse before back at her harsh crimson eyes, before he burst out laughing. "You're not joking! Holy shit, that's hilarious! Here I am, sitting in OZ's lap, and you're too busy dealing with red tape to actually do anything about it!" He continued with his forced, awkward laughter, closing his eyes and tapping his right foot against the floor. Behind him, one of the officers twitched angrily. He would have kept laughing if Eva hadn't quietly stood up, circled around him, and stuck one of her fingers into a wet spot on the left breast of his tunic and into a soft wound in his chest. The laughter stopped abruptly and he writhed vigorously until she used her other hand to hold him in place by the back of his head.

She bent over enough that she could whisper into his ear. "Don't be so pleased, Maxwell. Once C-102's government has finished pocking and prodding every corner of that black-and-white killing machine you came to Earth with, they'll decide what they want to do with _you_."

"No offense, lady, but I don't plan to just sit around and wait for you people to sort out this whole thing," he whispered back before Eva started twisting her finger counterclockwise, bringing on more intermittent howling in pain.

"And that's exactly why you and I are having this little conversation. You see, I have a theory that sounds ridiculous to everyone else in this universe, except I think _you_. A little, two-word theory."

She stopped twisting, resting her hand on his shoulder. "_Heero Yuy_."

As Eva stared at the adolescent, she found herself impressed: a normal child, even an adult, wouldn't have done so well to disguise the emotional response after the sharp stabbing of one of her fingers digging into a fresh wound left from recently-removed glass shrapnel. But there was still a sign, hidden but definitely there, from Maxwell when she introduced the idea into his mind. Not one of hope or satisfaction, but instead, resignation and even a little remorse. Practically the opposite of what she expected.

Eva pushed his head back so it hung weakly, circled back to her desk and took her blazer with her clean left hand. "That's all for him today. Lieutenant, send Maxwell to the medic and then back to his cell."

The door swung open again and Greely promptly strolled in as Eva left. She handed her blazer to Khan and rinsed her hands in the utility sink.

"So that's all, ma'am?"

She nodded, still scrubbing her hands with the soap from the dispenser. "Contrary to what some of the chickenhawks in the government may say, the use of torture does not produce accurate information. But the Military Commissariat does have a few simple psychological ploys that are sometimes effective. Pain _is _useful sometimes."

The colonial NCO shook his head, as Hopkins entered and took the blazer from him. "But I don't understand…Heero Yuy?"

Hopkins shook his head at the NCO warningly. "Not _literally _Heero Yuy," Eva told him, drying off her hands as Hopkins helped her back into her blazer. The two promptly left after that, just as Maxwell was being helped from the room. Lieutenant Hopkins was fishing through his folder as the two entered the lift that would take them back up to the embassy main floor.

"So our 'Heero Yuy', as a civilian previously identified him to an Alliance officer, is the same young man who was held in the Alliance Third Naval Hospital in Japan, who in turn matches the young man suspected in the destruction of the military base for Alliance Leo troops _here_ in C-102 before the war."

"And then he shows up at L1-D-1307 going through old records."

"Christ, this kid is _everywhere_," he remarked.

In the lift car, Eva leaned towards him with a thin, crimson smile. "Remind you of anything?"

"The Gundam pilots?"

_Parsons would have put this together earlier_, she thought. "Get Luxembourg on the line, ask for footage from the Battle of Mirny, either from 'Tallgeese' or recon aircraft."

The doors opened and they both exited behind the security checkpoint on the OZ Legation Grounds. "Shouldn't we…put out an alert? In case he comes back here?"

"No, not until we can prove he's something besides a spook."

**VII**

"To dumb luck," Walker said, raising a pouch of soda.

"To dumb luck and thinking on your feet," F/O Kaneshiro said, doing likewise.

"To dumb luck and ridiculous coincidences!" F/O Mazuri announced.

The three of them looked at P/O Bishop, who looked around nervously. "To…" he began.

"_To dumb luck!_" the three repeated and began sucking their sodas through straws. Dac muttered under his breath for a moment before doing the same.

"So, Lieutenant, have they told you what unit you'll be commanding for your inevitable promotion?" Mazuri asked, grinning from ear to ear.

"Hardly," Walker replied somberly. "I have no doubt that Colonel Une can distinguish between praiseworthy skill and unexpected fortune."

"Well you're no fun," Mazuri muttered while Walker spoke over him.

"If anything, I'm more concerned about the image of impropriety."

"Impropriety?" Dac asked.

"So what do you think they're going to do with him?" Kanna asked, changing the subject.

Walker finished his soda. "No idea. It's looking like the jurisdictional nightmare everyone thought it might be."

"OZ: hoping for the worse, never being disappointed," Dac offered.

"And the Gundam?" Mazuri asked

"That's clearer. C-102 has to surrender it to OZ, or they'll be in violation the Interstellar Arms Proliferation Act and their treaty commitments."

"Returning a Gundam to a colony _does _seem to be a complete waste the war effort," Mazuri admitted. "If the General Staff was really on the ball, they'd find some way to reverse-engineer the thing and build however many we'd need to throw at D-120 and force a peace."

"But it's not just the Gundam. It's the pilot," Kanna pointed out.

"_Lieutenant Walker, priority transmission waiting for you in the communications room. Repeat, Lieutenant Walker, please report to communications room._"

The four of them stared at the intercom mounted on the wall of the rec room.

"Anyone else get an ominous feeling from that?" Kanna asked finally as Walker stood up.

"If I don't return, Kanna is in command." He paused, looking particularly wary. "And Dac gets to be third seat."

"Yes!" Dac cried. "What do you mean, if you don't return?"

"And why Kanna?" Mazuri asked indignantly.

Walker took the guiderails to _Barge'_s communication hub, adjacent to the overbridge. The officer managing the shift instructed him to take the third secure room.

"It's Lieutenant Colonel Une, sir."

"Thank you for the warning." Closing the door behind him, he stared at the communications suite and sat down at the chair. Taking a deep breath, he answered the call.

"Colonel, ma'am, this is Walker. Go ahead."

The OZ insignia on the screen vanished, replaced by a line of text.

**L1-C-102 – SOUND ONLY**

"_Walker, we have a problem_."

He stared uselessly at the screen. _So much for keeping my source a secret. "_We do, ma'am?"

"_Yes, we do. Do you remember Colonel Tubarov Villemont?_"

Walker replayed the scene at the Ruhr Valley Factory in his hand—drawing his sidearm on the colonel, in the presence of Duke Dermail no less. Despite being at His Excellency's orders, it somehow felt worse. But at least it wasn't Maya Barton. "Of course, ma'am."

"_He's moving his development headquarters to Luna, specifically the Marius Crater Plant._"

"And that's…a bad thing?" Walker said, giving the careful answer.

"_Walker, I'm going to assume His Excellency didn't come to rely on your stupidity. First, that means you must be at least intelligent enough to see this for the blatant grab of administrative authority that it is. Second, you must at least be relatively competent as an engineer. With your coincidental victory over the Gundam, I'm making you my liaison for Engineering._"

"I…thank you, Colonel. Should I submit for a transfer from the Mobile Suit Tr-…"

She cut him off. "_What are you, a lieutenant in Ferdinand's Hussars? You'll stay with your unit, but you'll do you work by datalink. You'll be given the highest clearance in regards to the design database. Use it wisely, and report back to me on all ongoing design projects, just as you did with the Gundams before Mirny. I don't need you to re-invent the mobile suit, just describe the designs in depth and explain any possible defects or weaknesses the design teams might be concealing. Particularly Tubarov._"

_For all ongoing design projects?_ "I understand ma'am. Thank you ma'am, you won't be disappointed."

"_I'm sure I won't._" Une cut the call before he could respond, and he was talking to no one. He put down the handset and stood still in the secure booth for a moment.

_If this was Nichol's idea, I'll have to find out whether to thank him or punish him. Rationally speaking, if he was aiming for my job, which he isn't, there are better ways to get a divisional posting. So if this is his doing, it's a prank. A very stupid prank._

"Well?" He turned to see Kanna outside the communications center.

He beckoned her to follow him into a small extension from the hallway, then whispered to her. "I think Une wants me as the engineer in her corner to consolidate all mobile weapon development. She's concerned of Tubarov Villemont."

Walker paused, remembering Kanna wouldn't have known the colonel. "The Alliance colonel who's on the board of the Romefeller Foundation as their technical expert, Tubarov Villemont. The one who was at the Ruhr Valley Factory."

"Call her back and tell her to take a hike! You're a combat pilot, you've got more than enough to deal with!"

"Well I already agreed to it," he admitted, watching officers float by the hallway.

"You can change your mind," she reminded him,

"That's true, but I don't think I will."

"Why not?"

Walker paused in mid-step, putting a hand against the wall. There was a tingling in the back of his mind that it might be somehow wise to reveal that he was part of a clandestine conspiracy to design a Gundam on behalf of the commander-in-chief of OZ. Obviously, he couldn't, but it was interesting to think of. "Maybe Mazuri's right. I don't think I'd pass up promotion to squadron commander before I turned twenty. Would you? If you were my age, I mean."

Crossing her muscular arms, she stared at him briefly. "It depends."

"Of course," he said, pulling the sliding door open and leaving. Kanna followed after him.

"Just don't forget us when you make squadcom."

"I don't mind saying that, if it were up to me, I'd take all of you with me."

On the other end of the call, Une remained in her office, putting a hand on the blue suit she would switch back to tomorrow, leaving her service uniform on _Barge_ at least metaphorically.

"Nichol, I'll be leaving _Barge _to you. _If_ there's a retaliatory attack from the Gundams for this…incident…you'll be in command as my proxy."

Standing between her and one of her maids, Nichol stiffened his posture. "Are you sure, ma'am? Major Bremer…"

"Bremer is an old soldier, so he'll know how to follow orders. As will you—do nothing until I give the word."

"Yes ma'am." He paused, swallowing nervously. _Is this all because Walker lucked out and found a Gundam on his own?_ "Are you sure it's necessary though?"

"The Gundams will retaliate, sooner or later, for the destruction of one of their own. We can't threaten them again like we did at Mirny. Whatever happens next, it needs to be clear that the call came from the commander-in-chief, not just _Barge_'s commanding officer. Bremer will appreciate being relieved of that. If he doesn't, _he _can be relieved."

"Yes ma'am."

**VIII**

Whether out of caution of fear, Walker waited for a signal of some sort before acting on his orders from Une. He got it the next day, 12 August, as he and Kanna were idly staring out a window overlooking one of the hangars. Ambassador Une's personal shuttle was departing to resume its tour of the first Lagrange Point.

"I think we'll all be breathing a little easier now that she's gone," Kanna told him, pulling her tunic off.

"Kanna, I want you to take the take flight out with the rest of Squadron 1 for maneuvers. You'll use my mobile suit, and set yours to mobile doll mode."

She stared at him. "_Hai_. You gonna' be busy, sir?"

"'Not too busy for maneuvers,' is what a good flight commander would say. I better get this over with."

"It's an interesting dilemma, isn't it?" she asked as she pulled off her tunic and hung it over a shoulder.

"Why would you say that?"

"Well, you like to be prepared for everything. So either you can prepare for combat by going on maneuvers, or you can prepare for Une tearing your ass in half by trying to please her the next time she comes back."

He looked up at her, frowning. She laughed back.

"Sorry, sir. I'll see you when maneuvers are complete."

While Kanna left to get her normal suit, Walker made his way to the communications center again, where he met a Second Lieutenant Lindsey, a short-haired blonde woman about his age from the overbridge command staff who was waiting for him, on Colonel Une's orders. Aside from having a shift on the overbridge, she was a computer database specialist, and had a high level of clearance from some previous operations Walker wasn't familiar with. She was already sitting at a computer station when the senior noncommissioned officer who'd followed him in began frisking him.

"Just to walk you through this, sir, these are high-clearance files, so when actually accessing the whole database, I'll need to accompany you."

_Apparently, the military runs its libraries just like the one on Luna. I wonder how much of those files are 'junk'. _He held his arms over his head as the NCO frisked him, finding his notebook and opening it quickly. He returned it to Walker after glancing at the sketches, saluted, and left.

Lindsey waited for the sergeant to leave. "Should we begin, Flight Lieutenant?"

Walker looked around the dimly lit annex of the communications center, with a window stretching across the wall and the starscape beyond it. "I'm not entirely clear on how I should do this, should I sit…?"

"Wherever you're comfortable, sir."

Walker took a seat a little behind her. She began tapping the keyboard at her station, and two screens turned on in the annex: the large main screen, and the one at her own station.

"Datalink established with the Defense Ministry's M.A.D. server in Adidis Abeba."

"Really? It's that easy?" Walker stood up. "Never mind. Please bring up the in-use mobile weapon development codes."

"Any particular objects, sir?"

"All incomplete objects, please."

After a short pause, a familiar emblem appeared: an eagle, wings spread, in a circular insignia, over a number, circled by text. On the small tablet computer at Lindsey's station, the same emblem appeared.

**MAIN ARMARMENTS DIRECTORATE**

**AC 133**

**UNITED EARTH SPHERE ALLIANCE MINISTRY OF DEFENSE**

"Can you believe they're still using the same emblem?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Does that department still exist?"

"Apparently it does—just without any living humans. It's just a computer program in a server in Adidis Abeba that connects with another server in Luxembourg, together that records and organizes all the data autonomously. God help us when the day comes that they can just write one program to handle design and another one to run the factories."

While Walker frowned at the back of Lindsey's head, the screens changed to a list of numbers and words.

**OBJECT DEVELOPMENT CODES  
>ASSOCIATED SERVICE CODE<strong>

**Object 0513  
>Command and Control Mobile Suit<br>OZ-13MS**

**Object 1313X1  
>Offensive Focus Mobile Suit<br>OZ-13MSX1**

**Object 1313X2  
>Defensive Focus Mobile Suit<br>OZ-13MSX2**

**Object 1313X3  
>Unmanned General Purpose Mobile Suit<br>OZ-02MD**

**Object 0714MSX**  
><strong>Electronic Warfare Mobile Suit<strong>  
><strong>OZ-14MSX<strong>

**Object 0215  
>Command and Control Mobile Armor<br>OZ-15AGX**

**Object 1116X-D  
>Assault Mobile Armor<br>OZ-16MSX-D**

**Object ?17**  
><strong>General Purpose Mobile Suit<strong>  
><strong>OZ-17MS<strong>

"Can I ask what do those numbers mean, Flight Lieutenant?"

He nodded. "The first two digits correspond to OZ factory complex. The second two are the machine designation. For example, the original Leo-E was originally assembled in Corsica. So if you found the full list, it'd be under 'Object 1206E'."

"There seems like a lot of development under complex 13."

"Yeah, there's a lot of planned development for the No. 13 Factory. That's Luna's Marius Crater Complex. What I'm wondering is that last object, 'OZ-17MS'. Its development code is incomplete."

"They probably haven't finalized the production site yet. Whatever 'general purpose mobile suit' it is, it only exists on paper. Technically an object doesn't receive an official service code until it's adopted into service, so instead here with an associated service code." Walker took out his paper notebook and a pen, opening the former to a new page. "Could you open up each of the pages and read the unloaded weight, the power plant output and the combined thruster output for me."

"Uh…yes sir. First page, OZ-Thirteen-M-S. Unloaded weight, eight-point-five metric tons. Power plant output, thirty-seven hundred ninety kilowatts. Total combined thrust, eighty-nine thousand five hundred N." She paused briefly. "Sir, may I ask what 'N' stands for?"

"It's a newton, the force needed to accelerate one kilogram at a rate of one meter per second square."

"Right. OZ-Thirteen-M-S-X-One. Unloaded weight, seven-point-three metric tons. Power plant output…" she said, trailing off.

"Is something the matter?"

"With due respect, Flight Lieutenant, maybe this would be more convenient for you if you could carry this around with you."

"I can do that?"

She sat back down and detached the computerized tablet that was acting as the small monitor at her station, put it flat on her hand, and held it out to him. "Please touch this, sir."

"Excuse me?" he asked, touching it anyway. The tablet beeped twice.

"It's now set to your biometric data, Fight Lieutenant. Your clearance level means you can access to a remote terminal. We just ask that you be careful with this."

"Of course, thank you." He took the small computer from her and peered at it—it looked like an oversized, flat mobile.

"Just swipe your hand across the screen to unlock it. Otherwise, it's like any other touch computer."

"Really? Neat," he said aloud. He swiped his right index finger against the screen once and it changed to the emblem of the Main Armaments Directorate, just as it appeared before. He touched it again to sign into the server, when the screen suddenly dimmed and a big red warning box appeared. The same text box appeared on the main monitor and a single loud tone sounded, nearly causing Walker to drop the computer.

"I'd like you to tell me that wasn't my fault."

"Do you hear that, sir?" Lindsey asked, pointing her index finger up.

"Hear what?"

She stared at the monitor for a few seconds before responding. "There's been a breach somewhere on the military network. But not on _Barge_."

"How do you know?"

"Because if we detected we were under attack here at _Barge_, the general alarm would have been sounded."

Walker gave a short sigh. "Well, that's a relief. Can you find where the attack flag was tripped?"

She was about to respond when another sound filled the room—that of _Barge_'s blaring alarm. "_Enemy contact sighted at the outer perimeter. All personnel move to general alert. All gunners, report to stations immediately. This is not a drill._"

Simultaneously, on the other side of _Barge_'s central axis, the Space Fortress' nominal commander was about to spill his teacup when another officer put his hand on his right epaulet.

"Colonel North!"

North stared at his comrade. "Bremer, please."

"North, whatever this is damn it, it'll have to wait. I don't know if you've noticed…"

In his other hand, North held his mobile to his ear. "Is he in contact?"

There was a confirmation. "Good," he replied before disconnecting and looking back at Bremer. "According to the officer on deck, Nichol's taken command from the field."

"What?"

"Listen, Bremer. I know it's not flattering, but Nichol _is _the aide-de-camp of the commander in chief of the Space Forces. In this particular situation, Lady Une wants Nichol in command."

Bremer stared at him with his wizened blue eyes. "You want me to mock the idea of a flight officer commanding _Barge _from a mobile suit in the middle of a potential attack, don't you? I'm not going to. But I _should _be up there. Nichol doesn't…"

"You're right, he doesn't," North repeated. "And you should. But this is _still _a request from the commander-in-chief of Space Forces, under the commander-in-chief of OZ."

North released his epaulet and Bremer stood there, staring. "Do you know why?"

"Not even remotely. I don't understand anyone under the age of twenty-five anymore," North told him as Bremer hurried floated out the room.

On the bridge, the officer on duty wiped his brow nervously, even after being patched through to Nichol's Flight. On the main screen, he could see that Squadrons 4 and 6 from the 91st Combat Engineers Battalion had already moved to engage the hostile contact, now identified as Gundam-05. Unlike Unit 02, this Gundam hadn't even tried to disguise its departure from low Earth orbit. Instead it directly engaged the space fortress almost as soon as it had been spotted, as though it knew the command staff was already dealing with another crisis, with each officer screaming to another about a different matter.

"We're confirming that the C-102 garrison is under attack! Explosions have been reported in thirteen different supply blocks!"

"Do we have any troops in the area? Anything?"

"We have Kaneshiro Flight in the area for maneuvers and Chernenko Flight there to escort Unit Zero-Two! They've both been diverted!"

"What do you mean they're not aborting the departure?" the duty officer demanded to the nearest officer. "This is insane, what part of 'it's a Gundam' do they not understand?"

Nichol's ID portrait and biomedical readings were visible on the corner screen. "_Get whatever Taurus troops we have left deployed here then! Colonel Une, the Gundam…we must abort launch now!_"

The voice of Une's pilot came back. "_Sir, the Ambassador insists she can't miss the summit at the new Area E. We're launching now!_"

"_Colonel!_"

"Oh well, this is going smashingly," the duty officer announced in despair.

"Sir, Squadron 4 reports they're now engaging the Gundam at close range just underneath the equator," an officer announced from his station.

"Tell them…tell them...tell them, I don't know!" the duty officer lamented as the main door finally opened. "Oh, thank God, Squadron Commander."

"Did I miss it? Have we lost the war already?" Bremer asked, floating in. He didn't sound at all like he was joking. As soon as he came to a stop, he stared up at the main display. "Have all Leo troops lure the Gundam away from _Barge_'s blind spot!"

"Yes sir!"

He watched his order being relayed the combat engineers in the field. "Nichol might command _Barge_, but he doesn't command the mobile suit troops."

As all of this happened, the pilot of Gundam-05, Chang Wufei, found himself enjoying the challenge: OZ's Space Leo troops were already proving themselves more a challenge than the Alliance counterparts, even as his Gundam tore them to pieces once they came in range, something they were becoming more and more reluctant to do. He couldn't use his 'Dragon Fang', a nasty close-range claw and flamethrower combination mounted on his left arm, at those distances.

"This can't be all you've got! You people are strong enough to control the colonies, you must be a more underhanded…and a lot stronger!"

The occupants of the overbridged watched as the Gundam and Squadron 4 moved steadily out of _Barge_'s blind spots—areas immediately adjacent to the Space Fortress that were only covered by point-defense weapons—and into the range of the bow Noventa cannon. Bremer's gamble had paid off, but he saw another problem.

"Tell Squadron 4 to fall back…no, wait, if they do, the Gundam will just follow them. Tell them to hold their positions!"

The duty officer stared at Bremer. "But sir!"

"Tell them to hold!" he ordered.

Biting down on his lip, the officer put his hand on the chair of the nearest bridge crew operator. "Officer Nichol, Gundam Zero-Five and the Leo Troops have entered the bow cannon's firing zone!"

Nichol's response was direct and to the point. "_Then open fire!_"

"Sir, we'd be firing on our own troops!"

"_No matter, do it now! The colonel's shuttle is about to enter the combat zone!_"

"Y-Yes sir!"

Bremer put his hand over his face as the duty officer engaged the automatic firing control with the press of a switch. It took a few seconds, but the outside view was soon enveloped in white and the whole of _Barge _physically shook. Chang saw much the same, as his Gundam was bathed in what seemed like a second sun, taking one of its arms, along with the survivors of Squadron 4. The mostly-decimated Squadron 6 watched from afar as the Gundam managed to just barely survive the attack.

"Sacrificing on your own soldiers? I've never seen my enemy as foul as they are now. When deceitful guys like you are this strong, I know I can keep fighting!" Chang declared over the sound of warning alarms blaring through his cockpit.

Amid the blaring, there was a soft tone as someone began broadcasting on an open frequency.

"_Please, stop this futile battle. Let's greet the new age together instead._"

"Who there?"

"_Let's do away with our desire to battle, bygones from the passing era. Those destructive desires aren't needed in the future._"

"Who are you?" Chang growled as the alarms began to die down.

"_Please stop this futile battle_." The same message echoed through the overbridge.

Bremer removed his hand. "What's going on?"

"_Colonel Une, give us the order to engage!_"

"_I can't do that. We're here to ensure peace prevails in Outer Space,_" she ordered, her voice becoming more delirious.

In his cockpit, Tycho Nichol cursed his orders silently. "Colonel…never mind, all units, engage Zero-Five!"

On the overbridge, the situation had descended further into panic.

"Bring Squadron 6 around and tell them engage! Launch any remaining squadrons immediately!"

The duty officer turned to Bremer. "Sir, I can't do that! Officer Nichol…"

"Sirs, I'm sorry to interrupt, but the Gundam is retreating!"

Almost as soon as Nichol's Flight of three had begun firing on Gundam-05 with their beam rifles, it took the opportunity of the passing shuttle to flee in the opposite direction, away from L1 and _Barge_.

"The Gundam is making best speed out of the engagement zone," the officer repeated.

"Deploy rescue teams for any survivors!" the duty officer announced as Bremer floated tiredly into an empty seat.

"Please request an update…on the situation in C-102," he mumbled.

In his cockpit, Nichol watched the escaping Gundam flee away, trailing fuel behind it. He didn't believe it—in the one day they'd had the Gundam in captivity, bombs were exploding in a nearby colony and another Gundam had attacked _Barge _head on.

"Let it go," he said, switching off his microphone with a button-press. "I don't even know which Une I'm supposed to be taking orders from."

He tapped the button again. "Major Bremer, are you still there?"

There was a weary response. "_I am._"

"Thank you for not…interfering. I'm relinquishing my provisional command of _Barge _back to you and the normal chain-of-command."

**IX**

"I just realized, I left my Gundam behind. I need to destroy it."

Saying this with surprising sincerity, Duo Maxwell shifted in the military normal suit he was wearing. He and his rescuer, Heero Yuy, had escaped L1-C-102. The colony's OZ garrison had been distracted by sabotaged mobile doll troops and several explosions, courtesy of Yuy's ingenuity with packed explosives and electronic warfare.

"The Gundams are worthless," he told Maxwell plainly. The two sat in the cockpit of a small cargo freighter that they'd absconded with during the chaos, as manned Taurus troops gathered the surviving Leo troops and combat engineers before systematically targeted the mobile dolls one by one. Yuy made note of how they'd approached the mobile dolls from outside the colony and destroyed them, one by one, without any of their own losses—something he didn't share with Maxwell yet.

"What?"

"Dr. J and the other Gundam designers have all been captured by OZ," he explained.

Maxwell correctly predicted what he'd hear next.

"I'll kill them all."

"Heero…"

Behind their freighter, at C-102, Kanna brought her mobile suit to rest alongside the wreckage of a mobile doll, sprayed across the colony's outside wall. Little bits of OZ-01MD could be seen floating nearby, glowing red from the recent battle.

Chernenko buzzed her on the radio. "_It's official: OZ's Mobile Doll Troops suffer their first defeat…at the hands of OZ Space Forces._"

Kanna snickered, shaking her helmet. "Negative, sir."

"_What?_"

"OZ's first mobile doll losses were in Germany, from Treize Khushrenada."

"_Really?_"

"Walker told me about it, it's a great story." She shifted her head slightly. "God, the perimeter's a mess. The saboteurs probably long gone by now."

"_To hell with it. It's someone else's problem?_"

She frowned. "Whaddya' mean?"

In his own cockpit, Chernenko rested his head and helmet on his hand. "Kaneshiro, the Mobile Suit Troops are the primary offensive arm of the Space Forces. We're here to destroy the Alliance military presence and train the colonial militaries to replace us when we leave. We're not police forces and we're not security troops. More than a few armies have made the mistake of confusing those roles."

He flipped a switch on his instrumentation, bringing up his orders on a MFD. "It always ends poorly."

His radio beeped. "_Alert to all callsigns: the C-102 military network is now back online. Sync up your computers by datalink immediately._"

"Saber Actual, acknowledging," he muttered, reaching for the primary computer console, the rightmost MFD panel, and the bank of switches below and to the right of it.

"_Razor Actual, acknowledged,_" he heard Kanna announce.

"Don't get me wrong though," he added as he pressed each one of the switches, establishing a datalink with the computer in C-102. "Someone, somewhere, fucked up. And someone's going to suffer for it."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_Once again, things get complicated. This chapter covers practically all of episode nineteen of the series (with the notable exception of Zechs' return to Outer Space, which I'll address next time. Heero's little scheme on C-102 was a little tricky to explain, so I settled on telling it through an observational role (and frankly, things were getting a little long too. _

_It's amazing how much stuff OZ builds on the Moon; Mercurius, Vayate, and hundreds (even thousands) of mobile dolls. But it doesn't make sense for Walker to be stationed on Luna as a combat pilot, as the location is remarkable safe (the Alliance never mounts an attack on Luna, and even the Gundams are reluctant to). Which is a shame, because it's clearly a happening place for development of technology. This, hopefully, will help make up for that (and don't think I've forgotten Epyon). On a similar note, I did some research on the various OZ mobile suit projects between the Taurus and the Serpent-all of those, in one form or another, are mentioned either in the series or, more commonly, in the sidestory manga volumes). This being about Walker, I do plan to delve into them a little bit; it wouldn't be OZ without their commitment to developed MS. _

_So, next chapter: Trowa joins OZ! He did it earlier in 'The Glory of Losers', I'll have fun reconciling that. Mercurius and Vayate! And possibly more Sally Po. _


	31. Marius City Infiltration

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 31 – Marius City Infiltration**

_12 August, AC 195, Indian Ocean_

"_Zechs, are you ready?_"

Ex-Colonel Zechs Merquise, still wearing his OZ Mobile Suit Troops uniform, sat inside the cockpit of OZ-00MS 'Tallgeese', itself attached to both a pair of solid boosters and outer space transfer engines. According to what Zechs had been told, they had enough power to deliver him into Earth orbit, and then to perform a transfer to the first Lagrange Point.

"As ready as I'll ever be, Howard."

On one of his cockpit's MFDs, Michael Howard gave an apprehensive nod. When he turned away, Zechs could feel the mother ship aircraft ferrying his mobile suit began lifting off from the Indian Ocean, its turbines at full power.

"I still say this is going overboard, just to get one person into space," he remarked.

Howard laughed on the other end. "_Just remember to fire both your solid boosters and primary engines and wait for them to reach full power before you release the clamps. Don't worry about us, this Antonov's a tough beast._"

As he climbed on piggyback, Zechs watched his altimeter and airspeed gauge, just above his artificial horizon in the center of his instrumentation. When he'd reached 800 km/h, he flipped the switch bank for the two massive solid boosters and the four liquid engines. There was a high-pitched whine before all four of them ignited.

"All engines normal. Preparing to release in three…two…"

When Tallgeese shook from their full power, he pulled the lever to release the clamps. Almost immediately, he could feel the Antonov descending from underneath him. Howard gave him one last smile before the MFD screen dimmed and Zechs looked back, where the aircraft would have been if he could see it.

"Outer space is rejecting humans," he muttered, feeling the g forces steadily climbing as Tallgeese's acceleration rose. "And now maybe Earth is telling us we're should be there either by pulling us back down to it."

**II**

A steady day of rain was scheduled for the day, and L1-E-063's Weather Control Bureau delivered. Colony rain didn't really resemble anything on Earth, it fell vertically and perfectly paced, rising swiftly to its height and staying there for the preplanned period.

Wearing her full service uniform, Major Eva Cebotari stood at the entrance of a large theater house in the colony's capital ward that was about to host the 7th All-Colony Congress. After a few minutes, the civilians at the checkpoint cleared her, having taken her sidearm. She passed through and took the lift to one of the private office level. Standing inside the lift alone, the conversation she had a few hours earlier with Lieutenant Colonel North on Space Fortress _Barge_ played in her mind.

_"Here to see me off, Colonel?"_

Lieutenant Colonel North, in his dark red uniform and shiny buttons, had stood there, a knowing smile on his face.

_"Things not go as planned for the endlessly clever Eva Cebotari?"_ he had asked her, calm, controlled. Not angry like she was.

_"If it were up to me, we wouldn't have allowed for the pilot's name to be released in the first place." _

_"You have my agreement there. Tell her what she wants to hear." _

_"Oh, you know I will."_

_"I know you hate to lose,"_ he pointed out to her as she departed. She exited the lift on her floor and took the door at the end of the hall. Her boots clacked against the polished marble floor.

"My Lady, Eva Cebotari reporting as ordered," she announced into the darkness of Une's office. As her eyes adjusted, she could see Ambassador Une, flanked by two of her maids, one with long blond hair, the other with dark hair in a bob.

Une looked up. Her hair was down and she wore civilian dress, but the Iron Colonel's trademark thin-rimmed glasses sat on her face, hiding her eyes behind reflected light.

"Tell me, Major, do you know why you're here?"

There was a moment of silence. Eva stood rigid to the point it looked as though, if you touched her hard enough, she might fall over and shatter into pieces. Even her voice was a little louder than usual. "Following his appearance at D-1307, I ordered Heero Yuy be placed on the Suspicious Combatant Watch List."

"And what did Heero Yuy proceed to do after that?" Une asked, rather rhetorically. Eva answered anyway.

"We believe he then infiltrated your…OZ's military command center in C-102 through the colony underground and freed the Gundam pilot Duo Maxwell."

Une turned to her directly. "And could you tell me, _Major_, how much time was there between those two _occurrences_?"

Another pause. "Less than half a day."

"So would you say that the Military Commissariat failed in its duties in coordinating between the Internal Army security troops?"

The Countess of Hannover stared at Eva over the rims of her glasses, waiting for an answer.

"That's a possibility, yes."

"The Military Commissariat, both here and on Earth, has been entrusted with considerable powers and equally considerable latitude. You yourself are held in some esteem by His Excellency for your work with the Romefeller Foundation." She tapped her pen against the armrest of her chair. "So what happened was clearly not a matter of insufficient clout. Tell me, even after you personally interviewed Duo Maxwell, what led you to think Heero Yuy would not pose a threat to our continued arrest of the Gundam pilot?"

Another uncomfortable silence. "Looking at the evidence, while I had no doubt that Heero Yuy was related to Duo Maxwell via the Colony Liberation Organization, I did not believe him to be engaged in a a conspiracy to free Maxwell."

"Why not?" Une asked, quietly and dangerously.

"I didn't believe that Heero Yuy, if he was whom we…_I _thought he was…would risk trying to free Duo Maxwell. Of course, that assumption relied on the suspicion of Heero Yuy's role in the Colony Liberation Organization, as the previously-encountered pilot of Gundam Zero-One." She paused briefly, her arms still by her sides. "It's possible I either misjudged the Gundam pilot's willingness gamble in their own homeland, or the actual nature of Heero Yuy's role in the anti-OZ Gundam conspiracy."

The explanation seemed to satisfy Une, as she smiled just a tiny bit. "You previously worked on the Peacecraft Case, didn't you?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Until His Excellency and the General Staff closed that case at the end of July."

"Correct, ma'am."

Une stood up from her chair—she was a little shorter than the older woman, especially as she leaned at her, grinning with more than a little menace. "You're smart enough to realize you don't want to make me your enemy, Major."

"I would hope so."

"Which is why you're going to take this experience to accept a transfer back to the Military Commissariat in Luxembourg. And when I call on you and your department in the future, I expect results fitting for the OZ Military Commissariat. Is that clear?"

Eva stared at the younger woman, still rigid and still. Une eased her head back as she waited for a response.

"Yes, ma'am."

She turned her chair and gestured for her to leave. "You're dismissed."

Eva clicked her heels, saluted once more, and left the room. Lieutenant Hopkins, having very obviously ran to the building, was waiting for her, out of breath.

"Well?" he asked finally.

"I'm being returned to Luxembourg," she told, feigning disinterest. "You'll have to carry on up here."

Hopkins was actually stunned to silence, if only breathily. Eva continued.

"In the military, a firm dressing-down can either be the necessary distribution of blame for a loss, or the sign of the end of your career. Though with Lady Une, it can be difficult to say which."

"You can't…you don't think this is a little overly zealous on her part? Sending you back to Earth?"

"Given whom we're dealing with, I don't."

Hopkins frowned. "And why is that exactly?"

She waited until they were back on the street to answer. "I believe the Ambassador is consolidating trustworthy sources of information around her. I am not one," she told him quietly. _I also believe that Lady Une may be completely insane. _

**III**

The 98th Corsican Legion of Honor Battalion had an obvious problem: if you took all of their mobile suits, you can easily operate them all from a single large airfield, of which there were no shortages in Western Europe. According to Luxembourg, they were down to two-thirds strength. Benjamin Disraeli estimated that was actually closer to thirty mobile suits, less than half of a full-strength Aries Troops battalion. The one thing going there was that the Scandinavian Air Army, their Alliance opposition, was hurting worse.

Harris and George Flights, still at relatively high strength, were put up at the abandoned farm near the E55 motorway, one of the two bridges from Denmark's Sjælland region into the Sanc Kingdom. From the Danish side of the Storstrømmen, they watched for the S.A.A. flanking from the north. From the watch tower, Disraeli lazily watched so-called Sancian Danes on buses and trucks in line to cross the border into their homeland.

"One good anti-shipping missile and _bam_, that bridge is blown and sixty…seventy people are dead."

Disraeli glanced over to Abbas, who stood in the watch tower next to him, his face devoid of emotion as usual. "That is macabre, you know that right?"

Abbas just stared across the sea. On the clearer day, the Sanc Kingdom was visible across the strait. Instead, Abbas had the unmistakable thousand-mile stare on his face, as he did most evenings when they didn't sortie. Disraeli sighed and shook his head. He sat down on the cabin edge and took out a book he'd borrowed from the library in nearby Vordingborg.

"What are you reading?"

"Book about Marticus Rex, the last king of the House of Peacecraft," he said, not taking his eyes off the book. "He was a…strange man, in possession of some rather radical notions."

"You don't say."

"You know he was an anti-Alliance rebel commander? He married the daughter of Queen Katrina and became king."

"Mr. Disraeli, sir, maybe you misunderstood, but what I meant was 'I really couldn't care less,'" Abbas repeated, more insistently, still staring away.

Disraeli grunted and kept reading. "You think a rebel commander would know better than to make an enemy of the Alliance twice. Buddha forgave three times, the Alliance forgave only once."

Abbas didn't respond.

"You know, I heard his daughter—I saw her talk in Bremen once—is planning to return to New Port City when it stabilizes. Probably assume her right to the throne." He set down the book. "I mean, I get that birthright is important and all, but what could have convinced that _shiksa _she wants to be princess of a kingdom with no…"

Disraeli was cut off when an air raid siren nearby gave a piercing wail. Even before the civilians crossing E20 could respond, two surface-to-air missile batteries further down the motorway turned their missiles to face north and fired one each. The missiles roared away and the immigrants began to panic, being steered by the Danish Defense soldiers into shelter.

Disraeli and Abbas watched the missiles disappear into the distance, when a different alarm went off, followed by a voice on loudspeaker. "_Harris Flight, deploy! Repeat, all pilots prepare to scramble!_"

"Great, I've been waiting all week to get shot down," Disraeli said before sliding down the ladder. Within minutes, even as returning refugees were still being rushed to cover, a half-dozen OZ-07AMS 'Aries' rose from the field, turbojets glowing, and took off north to meet the Alliance in combat once more.

**IV**

Walker sat in the Officer's Barracks aboard _Space Fortress _Barge, his small computer and his paper notebook arranged on his desk.

_Object 0513. The Epyon Gundam. Design finalized, to be completed at Ruhr Valley. Objects 1313 X1 and X2. Complementary designs intended to work in tandem. Prototype units at Luna Marius City Factory, to be completed prior to the final assault on Alliance Headquarters. _

He tapped the computer. _Design team unlisted. No chief designer. No staff. It might be Tubarov…_ he thought before tapping the computer again. _…but why would he list himself as chief designer in the follow-up project, the new mobile doll?_

He tapped his pencil against the desk. _So it might be Une's. But there's no one listed under it. So who else is at Luna with Tubarov? And what exactly are these tandem prototypes?_

"I need to get to Luna," he muttered, glancing at the nearby Lunar map posted on the wall. The door chimed and he turned off the computer before calling out.

"Come in."

"'Afternoon,_ Taichō_!" F/O Kaneshiro announced, a big smile on her face as usual, ducking her head to clear the doorframe. She was followed by a shorter second lieutenant, who saluted smartly before handing a manila envelope wrapped in diplomatic tape.

"For you sir, marked urgent."

"Thank you." Walker took it, setting it against the wall on the desk.

The second lieutenant saluted Kanna before departing quickly, who just shrugged back nonchalantly, before looking at Walker. "So, ready for the assault drills?"

Walker turned to her looking quizzically for moment.

"The assault drills at 0900 hours?" she repeated. "At MO-II?"

"Sorry, I remember now. I've just been…busy with this 'additional assignment' from Une," he said, pointing at the computer. "On the bright side, it's probably the reason I'm not on the damage-response team for the mobile doll malfunction."

"Yeah, that sounds fun," Kanna grimaced. "What about your 'source', that Colonial lady you told me about."

"I really can't keep anything secret, can I?" he muttered. "But no, I'd rather not contact her unless I had something to train. Plus I think even _she _would have limited access to the design bureau in Marius City. I think I'll need to try something a bit less orthodox and a bit more direct."

She leaned down on the desk, cocking her head, still taller than her. "Do you have a plan?"

"Of course I have a plan. I pride myself on my planning mindset. Though I have to admit, the one I've come up with could use some work."

"What did you have in mind?"

Towards the end of the morning, Flight Officers Mazuri and Kaneshiro were both waiting in one of _Barge_'s large ready rooms. They sat in awkward silence in the front row, two seats apart, in their sky blue and violent normal suits.

"Wonder where Walker is," Mazuri mumbled.

Kanna just nodded.

Another minute of awkward silence.

"You know, I heard the First Recon Battalion located one of D-120's patrol ships," Kanna offered.

"Yes, I did too."

Another pause. "How's that girlfriend of yours, the one with the bob haircut?"

Mazuri cocked his head. "We broke up about three months ago."

"Really?" Kanna asked, crossing her arms and looking up at the ceiling.

Mazuri was about to force more conversation when the door loudly slid open nearby and Pilot Officer Bishop stepped through, dressed in his normal suit, helmet under one arm. Mazuri exhaled a sigh in relief.

"Dac! Thank God." Happiness was immediately replaced with confusion and annoyance. "Wait, what are you wearing?"

"It's called a normal suit, Ajay. I have one too, you know?"

"I think Ajay's asking _why _you're wearing it." Kanna frowned as well. "Does this mean we're taking the carrier out? Why do we need a carrier to go to MO-II?"

"Yes, _that_," Mazuri hissed.

The answer came from the exit at the back. "That would be because we're doing drills at Luna, not MO-II."

"Excuse me, since when?" Mazuri asked.

"Since now. Ourselves, Chernenko Flight, and Bradley Flight will drill with the whole Ninety-First Combat Engineers in equatorial Oceanus Porcellum." He strolled to the front of the room, setting his helmet down next to Kanna on the seats. "The Ocean of Storms."

"I knew that," Dac snapped quickly. "Who said I didn't?"

"I just got the approval from Colonel North. He agreed that the low gravity would allow for a better simulation of fighting inside a space colony," Walker explained, walking up to the projector controls and tapping the touchscreen. The lights dimmed slightly and a digital image of the moon 'unfolded' into a grey Mercator projection map, with thirty locations immediately highlighted.

"That makes sense," Kanna announced loudly, cocking her head.

"_Nidyo_. If the inside of Alliance Headquarters is a giant, barren desert interrupted by large craters," Mazuri pointed out. "Please, _please _tell me that the General Staff understands that the only accurate simulation of a space colony is a cityscape."

Kanna sighed. "We've already flown around the inside of a colony more than the Colonials care for."

Mazuri stood up and walked to the projector controls, tapping them and zooming in on the quadrant that included Oceanus Porcellum. "I've heard the Eighth Division is being held back so that they can practice in Old Saigon Exclusion Zone for precisely that reason."

"So we get to practice on Luna, and Eighth Division gets a semi-lethal dose of radiation," Kanna observed. "I think we're getting the better deal."

"Mobile suits are chemically, biologically, and radiologically shielded," Walker pointed out, pressing the touchscreen again. Eight points in the basin were marked with triangles, clustered in a small group. "We should hope so. Luna's surface is bathed in radiation from solar wind and cosmic rays."

Returning to his seat, Mazuri put his hands over his head, his usual sign of exasperation.

"Otherwise, this is a pretty straightforward four-hour exercise. Squadrons from the Ninety-First Combat Engineers will assume defensive positions and we'll conduct an orbital insertion and target their defensive positions, then…" he said, his free right hand eventually turning into the shape of a weapon.

They stared at him.

"We hunt them down and 'kill' them."

"Oooh."

"I see."

"When you say it now, it sounds obvious."

Walker just shook his head. "Unless the peanut gallery has any further questions, we'll insert from the southeast, high-to-low attack pattern. Norma exercise rules apply."

"Good. No stupid flag to capture," Kanna added.

**V**

The leisurely time where the flights from the 7th Division's Squadron 1 were to leave for Luna served a purpose, allowing for squadrons from the 91st Combat Engineers to arrive on site two hours earlier and make as many preparations as they cared to for their role of White Team—the name given to a unit tasked as the enemy force in a war game.

The regiment's ranking officer—a flight lieutenant from Earth—stood in the center of the center defensive line formed in the Lunar mare far south Marius Crater. The F/L's machine settled in place, surrounded by seven other OZ-06SMS 'Space Leo' mobile suits in his immediate area.

At one of the lines forward of his, a mobile suit flashed its camera eye. "_Sir, we've finished calibrating our missiles for every spot for the next thirty kilometers._"

"_Acknowledged. We've zeroed the immediate area—activate the ECM unit_."

"_Affirmative. Arming now._" At the rearmost line, surrounded by three mobile suits, was an EWAC Space Leo, OZ-06SMSE immediately identifiable by its massive dish radome extending backwards from its cranium. Though it's normal function was to allow for detection, warning and control in space that would otherwise need a large, dedicated warship, it was modified to supply an effective electronic countermeasure that reached several kilometers in all directions.

Inside the lieutenant's cockpit, the multi-function display set to overhead tactical display began flickering with static as the ECM took effect. "_Confirming field active_."

One of the combat engineers, Officer Cadet Liu, buzzed the channel, his voice distorted from the same effect. "_Spada Actual, this is Razor 2-1. Our positional radar is online. Setting up local datalink._"

Spada 1-1 nodded, pressing a key along the MFD to make the connection. A southwards-facing cone on the area display was highlighted in white, indicating where their additional radar arrays were pointing, overpowering the ECM. "_Acknowledge, Razor 2-1. Connection looks good. Get ready to scrub the array once the contacts come_."

"_Yes sir._"

"_This is Spada Actual. All call signs, report_."

"_Razor Actual, reporting._"

"_Tango Actual, standing by._"

"_Ultra Actual, reporting._"

From the small observation post thirty kilometers south of Marius City, Flight Lieutenant Andretti and Lieutenant Colonel Sedici stared through binoculars and the thick, reinforced polycarbonate bay windows. Behind them, in the center of the room, the coordination officers stood around the Observation Halo Station—the holographic projection table that allowed the officers to have a simple, but effective, 3D image of battlefield topography.

"All combat engineer callsigns have reported in," one officer announced as multiple points along the basin lined up.

"Good, Black Team should be arriving in eight minutes thirty seconds."

Sedici lowered his binoculars. "What do you think are their chances?"

Andretti thought about it, adjusting the focus on his own. "One in four or one in six. The better question is how long do they hold out."

The bulkhead door behind them opened. "Sirs, the observer from the First Recon Battalion has arrived."

The flight officer shook a bit of dust out of her bob haircut before saluting quickly. "Officer Tsujimoto Nabiki, reporting."

Andretti looked away from his binoculars, turned and nodded. "Pull up a chair. It looks like things are about to start."

The attacking force, Black Team, were burning their final maneuvers in their Taurus carriers. Inside the carrier belonging to Walker Flight, Dac killed the throttle and turned to look down the long hallway that extended from cockpit to the powerplant and liquid-fuel engine access. Behind the cockpit, the mobile suit pilots waited, helmets on.

"Four minutes before we enter the engagement zone."

Walker stood up and patted the back of Dac's seat. "Bring the Taurus A.P.U.s up to full power then go to standby while you're in orbit.

Dac adjusted his helmet's gas hose. "What if hostiles appear?"

"Then you go to full power, ask for an escape vector and trust in the Lunar Military District."

"…yes sir."

Kanna, Mazuri and Walker floated into the three hatches towards the middle of the hallway, transferring to their mobile suits—unmodified OZ-12SMS 'Taurus' units that had traded their beam rifles for extraterrestrial-use paintball markers, housed long carbines shorter than their usual weapon.

"Remember, the Leos are using the same markers. So firepower wise, we're on the same level." Walker reached for his leftmost MFD, toggling it to the war game program and switching the program on and off with a switch. "Mostly."

In their orbit around Luna, the carriers had already crossed over Oceanus Porcellum, the glowing lights of Marius City not far away.

"_We're entering the combat zone in sixty. Archer Flight, ready_."

"_Beagle Flight, ready_."

"_Centurion Flight, ready._ _Archer Actual, would you care to do the honors_?"

Walker almost blushed under his helmet. "It'd be my pleasure. All Taurus Troops, weapons and altitude restrictions lifted, deploy!"

In practiced coordination, nine black mobile suits detached from the three carriers, and in fighter mode, descended upon the basin floor. Nine Taurus mobile suits versus more than three times as many Space Leos.

"_Black Team spotted!_"

In his cockpit, Liu heard his flight leader scream over the channel. "_All units, open fire!_"

**VI**

"Yoshi, hold onto something!"

Sitting just behind the flight deck, Miyamoto Yoshitsune barely grasped the nearby doorframe when the Antonov strategic airlifter he was riding rolled thirty degrees port.

"Chaff and flare, chaff and flare!" he heard someone in the cockpit shout.

Since the beginning of August, Yoshitsune had been sent to the Republic of Utah, where he traveled with the 40th Canadian Victorian Cross Airborne. When hostilities resumed against the republic, 40th C.V.C. Airborne Separate Battalion was thrown into the thick of it.

"Sent to some place I've never heard of…to die in an airborne carrier…I should have stayed in Singapore," he hissed as the aircraft abruptly fell a few meters and he fell out of the chair, sliding through the cabin with a yelp.

In the flight deck, the Antonov's four-man crew was lit up by bursts of anti-aircraft fire filling the night sky all around them as they loitered on what they thought was the edge of the battlefield as they tried to level-off.

"Interceptor squadron destroyed. That should be the last missile."

"God, I hope so!" Yoshitsune yelled from behind them.

"_Eagle Mothership, this is Eagle 2-1!_

The signal officer, sitting behind the pilot, turned in his seat. "We read you, Eagle 2-1, go ahead."

"_Ammo dry. Requesting clearance and vector to rearm._"

The signal officer glanced at the tactical coordinator, who had to make the call. He gave a thumbs up.

"Eagle 2-1, clearance granted. Vector sent over datalink. Turn to 290, speed 550, altitude 1800. " He waved an arm in Yoshitsune's general direction. "Crew chief, get your guys ready."

He had just gotten on his feet and was holding his stomach. "Just don't flip us over again."

"No promises." While he might be a regular engineer on the ground, in the air, Master Aircrew Miyamoto was chief of the technical aircrew, charged with re-arming and refueling. The main hold's light went from green to red and the hydraulics for the rear door began charging up.

"Come on, we got one coming in hot!" he yelled as the technical aircrew stirred to life and began pulling on flak jackets, helmets and goggle over their work suits. The rear door lowered and amid the missile trails and AAA in the distance, they could see a single OZ-07AMS 'Aries' on approach. As it grew closer, Yoshitsune unconsciously relaxed when he could actually see, with his own eyes, it was in OZ livery, and he felt is headset under his helmet.

"O'Brien, you're clear on. Keep it steady." Keeping his left arm on the railing, he made his way down the catwalk to the aircraft's rear. On the other side of the hold, another crewman was already signaling Eagle 2-1 on his approach.

"One-hundred…eighty…sixty…forty…"

Smoothly, the mobile suit entered through the Antonov's stern and came to a halt inside—Yoshitsune could see the damage of gunfire and shrapnel on its armor plating, but it wasn't nearly as bad as he expected.

"Come on, we're not getting paid by the hour!" Yoshitsune yelled as he climbed one of the ladders extending down the torso as the clamshell cockpit opened up. At the bottom of the ladder, he could see Flight Officer William O'Brien, one of the 40th C.V.C. Battalion's pilots, catching a bottle of water from another crewman.

"How's it going out there?" as Yoshitsune asked as other crewmen used the internal crane to begin loading AMGM back into the machine's two missile pods.

"Pretty well. Too well. The Utahans are…are broken, which is not what I was told to expect," O'Brien admitted, before taking a deep swig of water. "I mean, I'm not complaining but….something's not right out there."

"Tell that to the missiles we were dodging," Yoshitsune muttered.

"Say what?"

"Nothing sir," Yoshitsune assured him as caught the water bottle tossed at him.

O'Brien leaned over to get a better look at his chaingun as a new belt of APFSDS ammunition was loaded. "Whatever it is, something's different. This doesn't look anything like the video reports or the intel or the bloody newspapers."

"That's a good, isn't it? Have your battalion conquer New Jerusalem single-handedly."

"I wouldn't go that far."

**VII**

"_Missiles away!_"

Using visual tracking from their defensive lines, multiple Space Leo troops fired their missile launchers. The guided warheads tracked not the enemy Taurii, but the spaces between them, where the first four exploded. The two on the edges missed their targets completely, but the two in the center exploded just in time to shower the area a few hundred meters around them with paint pellets. The unlucky Taurus traveled through the rapidly expanding cloud and was stained a dozen times across its left arm and leg.

"_This is Beagle 1-3, I'm out_," the pilot calmly announced, as he killed his thrusters and let his machine drift to the surface gently.

"_This is getting ridiculous, we're just flying in circles until they eventually hit us._"

"_Acknowledged, Beagle Actual._"

"_Arrow Flight, Centurion Flight, I've got an idea. Regroup at four-three-three, then hit their radar and their ECM simultaneously._"

Walker's Taurus dodged fire from below. "_Acknowledge, Beagle Actual. Arrow Actual to Arrow 1-2, Arrow 1-3, form up on me, attack pattern three, we're going for the ECM_."

Kanna laughed over the channel. "_Now you're talking, Arrow Actual._"

"_Go in low under the fire along my vector_."

As White Team continued firing nonstop from their defensive positions, Walker's team dropped behind them and unleashed a withering barrage at the EWAC Space Leo, coating it with red paint before the other Leos could respond. Mazuri and Kanna quickly jumped up—Walker responded a few seconds too late, and instead dove behind an outcropping of rock.

"_Taichō!_"

"_Lieutenant!_"

Walker watched the outcropping turn red from the enemy paint markers, then touched a switch. His forward display's picture-in-picture turned to another defensive line where White Team's machines were attempting a breakout. "I'm fine, Arrow Flight, link up with Centurion! The Leos are going to regroup!"

"_Sir!_"

"Just do it!" he ordered, glancing at the MFD displaying the wargame program. According to the program, his thrusters were running rough to simulate damage. "Pinned down in a Taurus. What a great pilot I am."

He braced himself and swung his machine around the outcropping and fired back with his own marker. He got a single burst of fire before they painted his machine red at close distance, even coating his primary camera. The wargame program pinged: his machine was neutralized.

"This is Arrow Actual. I've been destroyed." The Leos had already ignored him as his machine fell on its back, kicking up regolith in all directions. The war game continued on without him, as Kanna took the lead, and he closed the wargame program on his machine's computer, before powering it down entirely.

"Don't make it too easy for them," he muttered as he pulled the lever opening his cockpit, his mobile suit's electronics powered off. Grabbing a utility bag off the cockpit floor, he climbed out and took a look at his red-coated mobile suit before leaping off and landing on basin floor in a cloud of regolith. He reached into the satchel and took out a small positioning system, holding it up to the horizon: 270 meters, heading 010, in the direction of Marius City. He attached the device to his utility belt, then took out a walking stick, unfolding it and began his hike. Above and behind him, Black Team had backed off.

"_Arrow Actual and Beagle 1-3 are down. Centurion 1-3's got a bad left leg and thruster. So…what's our game plan?_"

"_Sensors are back—we've got twenty-one hostiles still active._"

"_If the point of this exercise was to demonstrate that we can't just blitz Alliance Headquarters and expect to win, lesson learned,_" Mazuri's voice came through, very irritated. "_Assholes_," he added.

"_Well, it was considered a feasible strategy_," Bradley pointed out.

"_They've lost their countermeasure and at least one of their bazookas. So we're going to wait_," Kanna instructed commandingly.

"_Wait?_"

"_Arrow 1-2, why the hell would we wait_?"

"_Because they expect us not to, stupid_."

Holding a military IR monocular in one hand, Walker watched the heat emissions left behind by the competing teams as their maneuver, before storing it in his utility bag. _As usual, I can always count on Kanna. _

Taking careful steps, he cleared a hilltop: just past it, breaking up the vista of Marius City in the distance, was an orbital defense beam gun, mounted on a hydraulic turret with a barrel just under thirty meters long. Next to it was a local radar array tower, along with an above-ground coolant station for both the beam gun and its underground generator. There was no perimeter fence, since anyone who wanted to could have easily climbed a fence in Luna's gravity. It wasn't the beam cannon Walker was here for anyway.

Near the cooling system's radiator vent, Walker found a discretely-positioned door handle. He gave it a good pull in his direction, revealing a few stairs and a small security door. Crouching over, he took out the diplomatic envelope from his satchel, tearing it open retrieving its contents: a military ID card belonging to Flight Officer Lazar, under F/L Andretti. Lazar had been in a coma since barely surviving Gundam-02's capture, and wouldn't the card, which bore his picture and an integrated microchip. Holding it in front of heavy-gauge lock, it read after a second and the locking mechanism rotating before pulling back. The door retracted shortly afterwards.

Walker made better pace on the grating floor of the maintenance tunnel than on regolith, and tried to stroll as quickly as he could without tripping. After a few minutes in the darkness, the hallway split, upon which he took the left path. That brought him to the underground generator unit that powered another defensive gun, one of the dozens that surrounded Marius City. The hallway ended at a ladder—but at the base of that ladder was another steel grate. After freeing it with an electric screwdriver, he lifted the thick metal grating, revealing a narrow passage underneath the maintenance way.

"This is the part I hate," he mumbled as he proceeded to crawl on his hands and knees on the compacted regolith. It was barely enough space for, and he had to stay low lest his suit or his air hose become caught on the grating above him. The cavern, records showed, eventually emptied a mostly-filled in crater very close to one of the emergency exits for the No. 13 Mobile Suit Factory. It took almost ten minutes of crawling upright, practically squashed between two rock walls, before he finally came out at the entrance.

Exhausted, he stood back up and looked at the steel housing around the emergency exit, marked in English white text vertically as such.

"So…let's see if I'm half as a clever as a fifteen year old." He brought up the system diagnostics on the door panel controls and selected the option to run testing mode. Glancing at the serial number filed on the door itself, he punched in what he felt must be the combination and braced himself. To his relief, testing mode was permitted and the door slid open, without sounding the emergency siren. He scrambled through and allowed the door to close after him.

"I'm at least half as clever," he said with a laugh, resting against the door, before continuing onwards. Almost immediately, it became apparent that even the emergency hallways in the No. 13 Mobile Suit Factory, devoid of atmosphere and intended for occasional, were still wider and more navigable than any of the previous excuses for corridors and access ways. He checked his life support and batteries, then picked up the pace, using the handholds on the wall to move faster. He climbed down one ladder, then another, and then a third.

Turning a corner, he stopped when he saw light pouring from a trio of reinforced polycarbonate panes—maintenance hatches. He'd reached it: on the other side of those hatches was the outermost of the massive underground fabrication halls in the Marius City Factory. After all he'd gone through he was in no rush to put it all to waste, and opened his satchel. He took a lengthy fiber optic camera assembly, guided it along the floor, steered it up at the middle pane, and hoped for the best.

"Let's see if this whole endeavor was a stupid waste of time," he whispered as he tried to make out the details of the assembly hall floor.

It didn't seem to be: he was able to make out the torsos of what looked like two mobile suits that initially looked like incomplete Taurii, missing their wings and other parts. A few seconds of playing around with the camera image confirmed that wasn't the case, that the two machines weren't of any make he'd ever seen.

_What…is that it? Are those Une's mystery prototypes?_ He adjusted the image further. _It doesn't look like she's manufacturing a pair of Gundams down here, so why all this secrecy? Tubarov? _

His speculation was interrupted when someone or something took his right arm, twisted it behind his back, and shoved him, helmet first, into the corridor wall. The fiber optic camera bounced silently against the floor as it fell.

He half-stood, half-sat there, pinned against the wall, trying to process what was going on. His first good idea was to turn his head just enough to get a look at whoever had jumped him, and was in the process of making out the distinct violent color of a woman's normal suit when there was a click-and-snap sound. Had something broken? No, that was the sound of a standard interface cable being plugged into the port on the back of his suit, the port that was only set to audio-only by default on OZ's normal suits.

The question was to the point, not at all friendly, and definitely from a woman. "What are you doing here?"

He tried to stay calm. "I know what this looks like, but I'm Flight Lieutenant Walker, Squadron 1, Seventh Division, Space Mobile Suit Troops," he stammered out. "My ID is in my satchel, if you just…"

With her free right hand, she reached out and yanked Lazar's ID off the lanyard wrapped around his wrist. The one that with the name obviously not his, and the image obviously not of him. "I swear, I am _not _a saboteur _or_ a spy."

There was a pause, and Walker considered the fact that she didn't appear to have a weapon drawn on him, both of her hands preoccupied. He wedged his free arm into the space between himself and the wall and pushed, only to be violently pushed back, his captured arm wrenched further. _My God, if Emi's smart-aleck assistant were here right now, I would never hear the end of this. _

He didn't see her pocket the ID card, but he did see her open his holster and draw his sidearm. _Now she has a gun. _That was very worrying.

She finally spoke again. "I know you."

"That's a good thing, right?" He paused. "Can I just…turn my head so I can see you? You can shoot me or break my arm then, if you want."

She said nothing, so Walker slowly turned his head. As expected, in the dark next to him stood a woman's military normal suit, with a woman inside of it from what little he could see through her visor. It wasn't enough to identify her, but after a few seconds, he realized he recognized her voice.

"Wait…you're from the Yuy Foundation, aren't you?"

"Who's asking?" Short as before.

As usual, Walker took this literally and tapped the visor of his helmet against the wall. "Flight Lieutenant Walker. We've met before, in Bremen. I was the one who got into the argument with the fifteen-year-old girl, Relena Darlian," he reminded.

"I know who you are."

"In that case, would you mind letting go of my arm?" he asked, writhing for a few more seconds to escape, to no avail.

She looked at him, then dragged him to his feet and down the hall to an airlock. His arm still held back, he took the hint and helped her close the door behind them, then letting the air pumps fill the vacuum, after which she released him.

"Damn, that hurt," he blurted out, flexing his arm back and forth, before opening the magnetic seals under his helmet. "You've a hell of a grip, you know that? Arm-wrestle a lot as a child?"

Shalua Yuy didn't respond until she undone her own magnetic seals and pulled off her own helmet: like Walker, she wasn't wearing a snoopy cap, and she still had the long, orange-red hair in a high ponytail he'd remembered. She let her helmet hang off the back of her suit, reached into a pocket and put a pair of thin-rimmed glasses before addressing him.

"No, I didn't."

"It was just idle speculation," he assured her. "Can I have my sidearm back?"

"No."

He elected to drop that for now. She was cold and curt, compared to before. Then again, they'd met at formal events, not sneaking around underneath the surface of Luna. _Maybe this is just how she talks to the masses, _he speculated.

Following her out of the airlock, he eyed her normal suit—it wasn't caked with regolith like his. "Ms. Yuy?"

"Shalua."

"Shalua, how did you get down here?"

"Through the front door."

He grunted. "Would you mind elaborating? I'd really like to know."

Shalua sighed. "I came in with the bulk resource delivery. The No. 13 Factory needs all kinds of things, some of which…"

"…can be supplied by the Yuy Foundation," he finished for her before sighing.

"So what's your excuse? Why didn't you take the front door?" she asked him.

The two came to a bulkhead door. With her left hand, she grabbed the heavy handle and pulled it to her, unlocking it. "Colonel Villemont and I had a sort of falling out on Earth," he told her, lowering the volume of his voice.

Walker followed her through, pulling up his own helmet and removing is goggles. A service ladder took them down closer to the assembly hall, close enough to hear voices, those belonging to the five Gundam 'scientists' who were in OZ custody.

The designer of Unit 03 was enjoying the unrestricted OZ afforded them public news on the Lunar Intranet. "It's official, according to the Luna Chamber of Commerce. That inaugural ball OZ held was the start of the first tourism season since the Alliance blockade began. People can now travel freely between colonies and Luna."

"OZ has seized most of the territory in Outer Space," he surmised.

The designer of Unit 02, standing nearby on the construction lift, nodded in agreement. "OZ has been very liberal with their gifts, winning over the public."

"Once the public trusts OZ, everything else will come easy. OZ will control resources and labor by proxy."

Unit 02''s designer smirked, as he was apt to do. "In the meantime, let's give OZ another headache to preoccupy them.

The floor held two mobile suits: OZ-13MSX1 and OZ-13MSX2, identical chasses painted in blue and red proving ground colors respectively. OZ-13MSX1 was missing both legs but was carrying a massive battleship-grade beam cannon linked directly to a large generator mounted on its back. By contrast, OZ-13MSX2 was nearly complete, outfitted with a shield-saber combination, a compact beam carbine borrowed from Tallgeese and a Leo, and twelve planet defensors—large disks about the height of a man, held together on pylons and each housing an incredibly powerful electromagnet fixed to a high-density power cell.

The clique's informal leader, Unit 01's designer, armed the defensors from the floor using a testing console. "The Mercurius' defense systems are impressive so far."

"Vayeate's been taking shape too," added Unit 04's designer.

"Well, the sooner we finish, the better. I don't intend to work for OZ indefinitely," he replied.

"Just remember, secrecy aside, this is Lady Une's project," the massive designer of Unit 05 reminded him. "When it's done, don't be surprised if Colonials end up piloting both of those."

"Is that why you're here?"

In an overhead service tunnel, Shalua looked up at Walker. Both of them were staring through the same grating vent.

"The Colonial militia program. All those officers and pilots have to come from somewhere, I bet the Colonial brain drain is only going to hurt your Foundation further with every colony eventually getting an OZ-organized military."

When he didn't get a response shortly, he sighed, only to look up when she spoke. "Not bad. I don't mind confirming that for you."

He stared at her. "Thank you."

She stared back. "Why are you here?"

"This again?"

"No, I mean, why are _you _here."

"To be honest, you may know better than me. This seems much more in the area of your friend, Dr. Cebotari." He sighed. "Then again, I've apparently been asked by someone to spy on their own mobile suit, if those designers aren't mistaken."

He leaned forward to get a better look through the grating. "Though it's a relief to see just what the Gundams' designers are up to. Better than letting them run their own little wars anyway…hey!"

Shalua took Walker by his collar and yanked him across the grate, pulling herself back simultaneously. The two ended up in a tall ventilation staff that led to one of the above-ground processing plants, where they stood together on the edge over a spinning fan.

"Now what?"

She gestured downwards. "This should give us some privacy. I need you to answer some questions for me."

"Get in line," he replied, before shaking his head. "I mean, maybe we can come to an arrangement. Does the name 'Maya Barton' mean anything to you?"

She thought about it. "She must be someone from the Barton Foundation, even if that's not really her name. Why?"

"She tracked me down a few weeks ago, wanting something from me, and has been paying for it with…useful information. What's this Barton Foundation?"

"They're the primary economic and political conglomeration at L3. One of the biggest in the colonies. It's head, Dekim Barton, was close to Heero Yuy."

"Dekim Barton…wait, I know that name. He was one of Yuy's Inner Circle in the Colony Liberation Organization, at least if Alliance Archives were accurate."

"They sound correct," she assured him calmly. "But I couldn't tell you what the Barton Foundation's trying—only that, like every other Foundation or political party in free Colonial space, they're trying to capitalize on the OZ's influence." She looked at him her opened right eye, greyish-blue under her eyeglasses. "That doesn't mean you should trust her. Or me, for that matter."

"I'm aware of that, thank you," Walker answered sardonically. "I may be asking her the wrong questions, I'm really not that well informed."

Glancing at the small nearby control panel, Shalua checked the time, then began circling the ventilation shaft. Walker followed.

"Would you consider putting you cards on the table?"

Walker watched her come to a stop at a door on the opposite side from where they've entered, looking at the heavy mechanical lock on the hatch. Running his hand along the lock, he felt a small hole in the center before taking a red pen out of his satchel and carefully inserting it. "What did you have in mind?" he asked as he slowly turned it, feeling for resistance.

For a moment, Shalua looked like she would respond. Instead, she reached forward, pulled the pen out of the hole, and with her other hand grabbed the grooves in the mechanical lock and began wrenching it counterclockwise. After a few seconds of grinding, the lock turned a full rotation and Walker joined her in forcing the door open from their side.

Once they were through, she answered. "I came here because, if OZ was going to build an army for the colonies, this would be where they'd have to start. What I want to know is what I should be expecting."

Walker followed her through the door and into a normal but deserted hallway.

"Afraid of the future?"

"Extremely so, yes."

Crossing his arms over his chest, Walker glanced at her left hand. "How did you do that? I would have needed a hydraulic wrench to turn that lock from the outside."

She looked at him again before undoing the magnetic seals on her suit's left glove, then held up her hand. Walker's immediate question was why she'd wear another a glove underneath her normal suit, but he refrained from asking when he realized that it wasn't a normal glove, but the synthetic sheath around a complex prosthetic hand—one that was almost certainly attached to a prosthetic forearm or more.

"Your arm…how did...how do you hide it?"

"Opera gloves on formal occasions. Usually my left eye takes attention away from my left arm anyway," she explained. Just as she claimed, Walker couldn't remember a time when she'd had both eyes opened—it was always the right eye.

"Did the Alliance do that too you?"

She shook her head. "I won't be answering that. Please, Lieutenant Walker."

_Flight Lieutenant. _He gave a short sigh before reaching into his satchel and taking out his paper notebook and turning to a page. "Well, you're right about Luna being the factory. Production may or may not be matching that of any individual factory on Earth."

"What will they be planning?"

As they came to an intersection, Walker peaked around both corners before resuming. "I can't tell you that."

"You can't or you won't?"

"I can't tell you that either," he replied as he followed her as she turned right. "I can tell you though, those two machines we saw, they're just Colonel Une's pet Project 'Bliznets'. Colonial pilot or not, they're not going to become the army of the future for Outer Space. Not by themselves."

They came to the end of the hall, where there was another bulkhead door—this one was left half-opened, with visible signs of tampering along the edges of the door.

"Your handiwork?"

She shook her head as they both crossed through. "If you're hoping to find Maya, instead of the other way around, you should go to L3-X-18999. It's a new colony deep in Barton Foundation territory, only about six years old."

"I've never heard of it."

"It's supposed to be a high-tech industrial production colony, but its economy is entirely dependent on Foundation charity, putting it under Dekim Barton's thumb." The hallway opened up into a massive hangar that was nearly unoccupied except for a _Titan-_class cruiser in dry dock, BC-110, and a few dockworkers. Shalua glanced up and spotted a service tunnel just off their own corridor, two meters above them. Walker followed her instructions and let her climb his hands and onto his shoulder, before she pulled him after her.

"The only thing that might change that is OZ, either through economic development in L3, or through direct investment. And even if they desperately need it, not everyone will be pleased with that decision."

"I think I follow you," he mumbled. "Would you return my sidearm?"

"Again, no."

He sighed again. "We're at the Marius City Naval Station. I assume this is where we part ways?"

She turned to him and with a nod, her face vanished behind the conical helmet of her normal suit. "If you need to go back to where you came from, just take that shipping tram to the junction, and we'll be south of the fabrication area."

He quickly checked the wristwatch he was wearing on his left sleeve. "It's been good working with you. Perhaps we'll do so again in the future."

"If the bad news I got this morning is true, we may. Goodbye, Lieutenant Walker."

Walker watched her leave, then reached into his satchel, taking out the torn diplomatic envelope. Inside was a small dongle with a button that he pressed down on before plugging into one of the standardized interface ports on the back of his suit. It was the receiver for the small listening bug he'd planted on Shalua's suit, a covert listening device with limited range, substandard audio quality, and limited battery life, but it might still prove useful.

He put his goggles back on and pulled his helmet over his head. _ Maybe I'm not I'm as innocuous as I appear, Ms. Yuy. _

**VIII**

At E-063, the All-Colonial Congress was in a short recess, Representative Song of L5-A-206 was speaking with his most frequent partner in crime, Representative Keaton of L2-V-08744, as they waited for OZ's ambassador to arrive for the second half of the meeting.

"Too bad there won't be an extradition, isn't it?" Song pointed.

"If you think it's bad for me, imagine how Nguyen must feel. If he'd surrendered Maxwell to OZ immediately, this might not have happened," Keaton countered, eager to change the subject. "Do you think this is actually going to happen? Is OZ really going to establish a nation in space?"

"Now that martial law has ended, and civilian communication has resumed between colonies and Earth, it's viable. We do have OZ to thank for that," Song admitted. "That being said, do we really need another Earth-sanctioned government for the future?"

Nearby, a representative from L4 nodded. "Perhaps, but given the population of Colonial space versus that of Earth, it'd be disadvantageous of us not to become a unified nation for obvious reasons."

Keaton held up a document, the same one being circulated throughout the chamber. "That's true, but here's the problem as I see it. At this rate, industrial development is going to be funneled into military technology, particularly mobile suit production if Luna becomes part of that nation."

"What choice do we have?" the other replied. "We're barely feeding the colonies with half of our food production coming from Earth. What other industries are we going to be able to count on in the next ten years? This Luxembourg memo is just pointing out what we all already know," he announced, shaking the document.

"A nation _is _the best way to overcome these issues. And even surrendering sovereignty isn't the bitter pill, but do we really want to be the lab rats in OZ's grand political experiment?"

"Aren't we already?" Song told him.

Keaton sighed deeply, looking across the chamber to another bunch of officials grouped around the stage. "Well, if L3 has its way, it won't be up to us. Not when it comes down to a vote."

Song sighed, removing his glasses. "Goddamn it, Barton. Was I the only one who thought the Bartons would not be the first in line for OZ's New Economic Policy when it was announced? A year ago, they were going to commit mass-murder on Earth," he whispered.

"If I have vote for this to stop a Barton victory, or a Barton placement in the Colonial Secretariat, I will," Keaton warned.

In an armored limousine traveling within E-063's roadway tunnel system, driven by Flight Officer Tycho Nichol, OZ's ambassador made her way to the congress from their prior engagement.

"I think that charity dinner went very well. Even if the Yuy Foundation couldn't make it."

"I feel so too."

He frowned. "The colony delegates aren't going to be happy with that memo, ma'am."

"It's only natural," Ambassador Une assured him. "They've seen the consequences of the Alliance's militarization. To them, the manufacturer of mobile suits is no different from a merchant of death."

"Earth's nations are backing OZ today with the explicit hope to promote space technology, especially anything that might have military applications. I can't see the more peace-minded colonies going along with it."

Une kept her eyes closed, as though deep in thought. "They should treat our policies as a framework for military deterrence. In time, it'll bring to space what has sorely been lacking."

"And what would that be, ma'am?"

She opened her eyes. "Order." Folded in one hand, she had her own scraps of paper, in this case the front page of E-063's _Review_, its headline visible over the crease: **CEASEFIRE ENDS IN L4, WAR!**

When she arrived at the congress, Une got right the point. "Thank you for your patience. Have you had a chance to familiarize yourself with the memo detailing OZ's New Economic Policy?"

Keaton was already on his feet when she entered. "Ms. Ambassador, correct me if I'm mistaken, but isn't one of the reasons the colonies were considered a threat to Earth the lack of an organized structure of accountability among them? If that's true, I think formation a unified nation is a responsible step in the right direction."

"But you're having problems with the promised industrial subsidies?" she asked respectfully.

Song rose to his feet, nodding at Keaton. "Exactly. How can we hope for peace in the Earth Sphere while settling on the notion that arms are needed as a deterrent? History _has _taught us otherwise."

The representative sitting next to him spoke up. "Sovereignty on Earth has led to a considerable militarization, but I think we here can still establish a different political order. We of course hope that technology will be the source of the necessary capital for that nation, but we shouldn't automatically settle on military technology."

Nichol watched with the rest of the audience, in front of the cameras that captured every All-Colonial Congress session, run by the Earth Sphere Public Affairs Network, the old nonprofit media service established early in the Alliance to cover government proceedings throughout Earth Sphere. Since the resumption of civilian communications through Outer Space, ESPAN-5 now exclusively covered Colonial politics. _So how much of this is substantial, and how much is for those cameras? These reps aren't fools, they know this game as good as anyone, and they know they can't force their outliers in this chamber to vote against their interest. So who blinks first? _

"In my heart," Une began, "…I feel the war has already come to an end. OZ is a military organization. We've continued to address ongoing disputes on Earth. The original goal of the United Earth Sphere Alliance was to obtain peace without relying on military might, just as you honorably hope to do. But consider what those hopes led to. There's no need for a mindless war. But you can't separate the beauty of mankind without acknowledging the desire to fight. Am I the only one who admires the human spirit's willingness to fight for its hopes and dreams?"

She paused, as Keaton and Song returned to their seats. "No. Millions of people in Area D of the First Lagrange Point have demonstrated their steadfast willingness to fight, and even die, for their own cause: the continuation of Alliance rule in Earth Sphere."

She cocked her head just a little. "They have made their nation, this Republic of Noventa. This congress's determination not to rise to that provocation, or even acknowledge it, notwithstanding, they have made a decision. You must consider that when making your own."

**IX**

With only a sixth the gravity of Earth, Luna wasn't ideally suited for human habitation, especially in the years before the advances in medicine and genetic engineering that overcame that detrimental problem. By the time those solutions became available, Outer Space colonies had been established as residential hubs, while Luna became the site of advanced research and heavy industrialization. Closely tied to Earth in more ways than one, Luna also became a popular tourist destination, an industry that prospered until the Alliance's martial law suppressed it. When OZ overwhelmed the Lunar Military District, Luna, once again became a tourist destination. Still bound to Earth, rather than the colonies, it welcomed a new generation of Colonial visitors to its cities, and people came to see the OZ Space Mobile Suit Troops, based overwhelmingly out of the Space Fortress _Barge _and Luna, as the guardians of peace and normalcy.

Shalua Yuy never imagined she would so blatantly embody the phrase "hiding in plain sight." But as she prowled through the halls of Marius City's Little Monaco shopping district, with its massive underground malls and huge skylights that stretched for hundreds of meters and offered an unparalleled view of the stars and OZ's Lunar Fleet, she began to appreciate the historical circumstances that made it possible. Needing to orient herself in the unfamiliar surroundings, she came to stop near a number of public telephones while discreetly checking the information terminal. She was interrupted by a tingling in the back of her head, turning just in time to see a Lunarian father and his son trying to take a photograph of her. Instinctively, she shielded her face—only to turn and realize that she'd stopped in front of a wall plastered with OZ recruiting posters, a handsome-looking mobile suit pilot in a normal suit, his helmet under his left arm and saluting with his right arm, in front of rows of uniformed officers.

"This must be a joke," she muttered, annoyed, before hanging up the terminal. With her long hair, thin eyeglasses and light makeup—all part of her normal routine, things she hadn't even thought about before her infiltration—she didn't think she looked like a soldier in OZ, even if she was the right age. Now she couldn't decide what bothered her more—the possibility of being caught this far away from the No. 13 Mobile Suit Factory, or her deception having worked _too _well. She threw up her arms and tried not to think about it.

Preoccupied with her own thoughts, she stomped over to an OZ Recruitment Office, a single large pane window and glass door between a café and a toy store, using the terminal there instead. She barely noticed the line of young men and women loitering around the station, including one young man standing nearby in long khakis and a sweater, with brown, swept forward hair, holding a brochure. While she tapped on the terminal keyboard, he was leaning against the kiosk wall, feeing around his pockets.

"I need to place a transorbital call," she told the terminal, which immediately began a search of locations that met that requirement. As the young man kept searching for something, Shalua sighed, reached into one of the pockets on her normal suit, and handed him a red pen.

"Thank you."

She looked away from the terminal screen, giving the young man full view of her face. "You might want to think twice about that," she warned him, eyeing the brochure.

"Why's that?" he asked politely.

She used her left hand to expand the map on the screen. There was something about the young man that gave her the impression he'd seen fighting before, like any number of men who'd come of age during the martial law period. "You're very young, aren't you? Fifteen or so? Don't believe the posters or ESPAN. It's going to be a long war and a longer winter."


	32. The Barton Identity, I

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 32 – The Barton Identity, I**

"I surrender, I surrender!"

Officer Cadet Liu quickly smacked the jettison weapon switch on the instrument surface just forward of his right flight stick, and his OZ-06SMS 'Space Leo' flung its paint marker away. Even then, his machine rocked violently as an enemy mobile suit dropped onto him, dominating his forward displays. Liu found himself staring down the barrel of an enemy paint marker.

"Great, are you going to shoot me now?"

The cheerful voice of Flight Officer Kaneshiro chirped back. "_Nah, just kidding. You're not bad, Liu, you're just not great_."

"Really?" Liu countered, tapping his video controls and highlighting and zooming in on a quadrant of his forward display. Just past the paint marker, he could see that the left arm of the OZ-12SMS 'Taurus' standing over him was marked with red paint: a good hit, but not a crippling one. "I thought I was better than good."

"_Don't push it, Liu. Just 'cuz you're a colonial doesn't mean I won't double-tap you right here._"

"Yes ma'am," he said, reaching for his leftmost MFD and tapping a button, bringing up the options menu in the wargame program. He pressed another one to indicate his surrender.

Outside, deep in the Ocean of Storms, the scattered mobile suits of the 91st Combat Engineers Battalion lay in various positions, a few still on their feet but others physically knocked down by the remaining four victorious Taurii of 1st Company, 7th Division. Black Team had overcome their opposition's screening tactics with a multi-pronged attack matched with a number of hit-and-fades.

"I'm calling it," F/L Andreti announced from behind the reinforced bay windows at one of OZ's observation posts. "Victory goes to Black Team, four to zero."

Colonel Sedici lowered his binoculars. "They beat the spread."

"I'll say, sir," Andretti muttered, as the Halo holographic station behind them highlighted all the units on the field. Directly to Andretti's left, F/O Tsujimoto coughed in her empty right hand before sticking it out. Andretti snorted and fished out a folded bunch of Lunarian bank notes, which he jammed in her gloved hand.

"Enjoy your time, Ms. Tsujimoto?" Sedici asked, holding back laughter.

"Immensely. It was highly educational," she replied as she counted her bills.

"_And that wrap's it up_," F/O Mazuri announced over the channel. Out in the field, like Kanna, he'd used his left arm to shield part of his mobile suit during the last barrage of marker fire from the defending White Team. "_I'm not getting the lieutenant's signal anywhere, he must still be observing radio silence. Guess I'll go find him_."

"_Negative, I'll get him. Just get Dac on trajectory for pickup_."

After a brief search, Kanna found Walker's Taurus knelt on the basin floor nearby, splattered in paint along with a nearby outcropping of rock, and with Walker standing just underneath it.

"Nice work out there," he radioed them, as Arrow 1-2 gave him a wave, indicating the exercise had finished. He jumped into his open cockpit, pulling himself up in the low gravity, before closing the hatch behind him.

"How was it?"

"_Like a really expensive video game_," Kanna admitted. "_Too bad you missed it_."

"I had a book," he explained, holding his paper notebook open in his left hand. He'd already begun sketching what he'd seen in during his productive downtime.

**II**

In the small cockpit of the Taurus rapid deployment carrier, Pilot Officer Bishop, still wearing his normal suit but with his helmet sitting in the adjacent seat, stared at large monitors stretched around him. The carrier's interior actually resembled an OZ mobile suit, albeit expanded to facilitate a crew of four rather than one. Like a mobile suit, there were no physical viewports, and everything was relayed through by large displays that surrounded Dac, including the guidance markers directing him on his approach vector with Space Fortress _Barge_.

Nearby, Walker was hunched over his seat, listening to live audio from the listening device he'd left on Shalua Yuy earlier, broadcasted on OZ's military band.

"_And this 'Walker' guy? Is he on the level?_" a man's voice asked.

"_I can't say. Military men on punitive, wasteful assignments are useful. It's not certain that Walker considers this punitive or wasteful,_" Yuy's voice explained back.

"_Now we know Lady Une picked an engineer. What should we do about him?_"

"_Somehow, I don't think your usual 'grab and run' approach is worthwhile_," she chided him. Walker scoffed quietly.

"_I'm not saying that, ma'am, but…what do we do?_" The audio quality was steadily degrading amid muffled sounds of movement and equipment hitting hard surfaces. "_At least he told you something useful._ _In return for…?_"

"_Nothing he couldn't have found out in time. He doesn't seem to have a lot of time, in any case_."

"_What about what he shared?_"

"_Trust, but verify_."

"_You've always liked proverbs, ma'am. I just don't…_" And with that, the audio cut out entirely, probably as Yuy and her associate left the effective range of the tiny transmitter.

"Are you listening to me, sir?"

Walker, who was sitting behind and opposite of Dac, yanked out his earpiece looked up. "Yes."

"What was I…"

"You were saying that it's not fair, or safe, for the carrier to have a one-man crew. And for what it's worth, I agree," he assured him. "Ideally, we'd have a copilot-slash-assistant for you, a navigation and radio officer, and either a medic or a mechanic."

He stood up as far as he could in the cockpit. "You know that the Seventh Division is stretched thin as it is. We'll be lucky for some green colonial recruits, much less someone from Earth."

Dac cocked his head as they cleared the last hundred meters and fired their retrograde thrusters. "To be honest, I'm just surprised you _were _listening to me, sir."

Walker patted him on the shoulder and gave him a sympathetic smile, before heading back. "What was that bad news?" he muttered to himself as he departed.

Dac looked at him, then at the Lunar regolith that Walker had tracked all over the cockpit. "What were you doing, rolling around out there?" he barked as the ship came to a stop inside its hangar.

Lieutenant Colonel Marcus North—thin, tall, friendly as usual—was waiting on one of the extending bridges crossing the hangar, followed by his assistant. Walker saluted once he pulled himself over the guardrail.

"Colonel North, sir!" Kanna and Mazuri followed suit, Kanna landing perfectly on the walkway while Mazuri nearly banged his head against the guardrail.

"Walker, congrats on your victory in the war games. How 'bout I let you pick tomorrow's lunch in the cafeteria? Anything you want," North said, grinning at him.

"Excuse me, sir?"

North kept grinning, then glanced at the other two. "Flight Officers, I'll need a word with your flight lieutenant. Take the rest of the day off," he joked.

They both saluted. "Yes sir!"

Walker followed North as the two floated to the hangar floor. "Walker, have you done something to piss off Lady Une?"

"I don't think so, sir."

"Walker…" North warned gregariously as they approached the door.

"I may have, sir. I think she blames me, in part, for the fiasco at C-102."

North laughed. "You catch the pilot, she lets them go, and it's your fault? Sounds like Une."

"Sir, why do you ask?"

"She's got you pegged for transport duty tomorrow. The first class of qualified pilots coming out of Luna for a live fire test. PR moment combined with spontaneous exercise. Nichol'll be back to run the test."

"Qualified pilot, sirs?" Walker asked as he followed North down the hallway, a passing officer saluting both of them.

"Five of them. All had credentials, mostly from Alliance Space Forces or the Winner Corporation or things like that. Mostly Lunarians, but probably a colonial or two. You'll join Nichol in taking them out for a live fire exercise." He looked at Walker, his smile gone. "On live television."

"What brought this about?"

North led Walker into an office, where a tea was being served. "Recruiting drive on Marius City. Just under three-hundred sixty applicants, with thirty of them having actual flight experience. Of those, five actually know how to fly, for God knows why. The General Staff thought it'd be good for propaganda value if they did well, or a good reality check if they all flunked."

"Their acceptance isn't going to be entirely based on that though, is it sir?"

"God no. I forgot you're not familiar with the recruitment process up here," North admitted, taking a cup of tea gingerly. "We'll take all of them into training at least. Space Forces are stretched thin as it is, and that's before Operation 'Citadel'."

"Citadel?" Walker asked, taking a cup very carefully.

"It's the proposed replacement for 'Nova', the final assault into the so-called 'Republic of Noventa'," North explained.

Walker sipped the tea in time with North did. "Sir, isn't 'Citadel' the name of the German offensive at Kursk during the Great Patriotic War? The _failed _German offensive?"

"Did you remember that off the top of your head?" North asked, impressed.

"No sir," he admitted truthfully. "I read about it in a book on Luna during the divisional inauguration. I've excellent memory retention. Speaking of which, I'll be sure to be ready for transport duty."

"Good," North said, finishing his tea. "Honestly, though, weren't you already on assignment from Une? Some development reports or something? Something related to the New Economic Policy."

Walker paused very briefly, before setting the cup down. "I am, but I haven't made any headway," he told him, sounding truthful again.

Walker saluted North, who saluted back before departing, but not before adding, "And come on, Walker, clean up would you? You're tracking radioactive shit everywhere," before pointing at the Lunar regolith he'd tracked in.

"Sorry sir," Walker immediately apologized, waiting for North to depart. In spite of that, he was actually pleased. _A good cover for doing me a favor—so Une _is _reacting to orders from Earth on the industrial future of space. Or North is just careless._

**III**

The next day, Lieutenant Colonel Une had returned from the Area E Summit to _Barge_, where Major Bremer was obediently waiting for her. As usual, Une's operational authority turned Bremer from fortress commander to glorified map-pointer.

Une, illuminated by Operations Room Halo Station, watched Bremer gesture to the staging area further out past _Barge_'s orbit that would be used by the exercise for five colonial pilots. Technically speaking, Luna was not a space colony so much as a type of Earth exclave in Outer Space, but many Lunarians were from the colonies.

"This is a standard live fire exercise. We'll be using low-powered guided mines—not enough to damage a Leo, but being hit by one is still nasty," Bremer began. "They will, however, be using full-powered beam rifles."'

Une gave an approving nod. "Lieutenant…?"

A young second lieutenant whom Walker didn't recognize with brown hair and glasses stepped up to the projector. He wasn't from the Mobile Suit Troops. "Hopkins, ma'am."

"Lieutenant Hopkins, has the Military Commissariat cleared all five of them?"

"Yes ma'am, I have copies of the reports for both yourself and Mr. Nichol," he explained, handing both of them thick folders. "Everything checked out...for the most part," he added.

"For the most part?" Nicol asked suspiciously.

"Relax Nichol," Une commanded. "Walker, you'll be in charge of the cargo hauling team. You're not too good for that, are you?"

"No ma'am," he assured her.

"Take whatever pilots you prefer," she said, looking back at the halo station. "Make sure they're people you can trust, we're dealing with some…sensitive cargo."

Walker decided to delve into that. "Excuse me, ma'am, but I thought we were just moving training mines."

"For the most part," she said, smiling coldly at him.

_Apparently, I shouldn't ask so many questions. _"Understood ma'am."

The briefing concluded shortly afterwards, with the officers dispersing and Nichol catching up to Walker in the corridor.

"Walker, wait up, we need to talk."

_I think you mean 'We need to talk, sir.' _"Go ahead, Tycho."

The two paused just outside the Operations Room. "Have you learned anything?"

"About what?" he asked Nichol incredulously.

"About anything? I don't like this exercise."

"Nichol, if you're opposed to the idea of colonial soldiers, not only are you in the wrong branch of service, I think you've missed your opportunity."

"Give me a break. You saw the New Economic Policy memo, didn't you? I can't believe arming the colonies to the teeth like this is a good idea," Nichol hissed.

"It does seem like a risky way to try and solve our human resources problem. But if a single one of those applicants is fit for combat deployment, we need them immediately. Even with the good recruitment numbers we're seeing now, there aren't enough pilots for either the reserves or the combat engineers."

"Trust me, I've seen the numbers."

"This is the closest we're able to get to the mobilizing the ex-Alliance in space."

"Just because it worked so well on Earth," Nichol began, before sighing. "You know, Walker, maybe you should be running this."

"I doubt that. I may have rank seniority, Tycho, but…you clearly have seniority in space. And you've interacted with colonial civilians and soldiers. There's a reason why you're here."

"Like what?"

"Experience. And intuition," Walker offered, not completely sure what that meant either. "Listen to your instincts, I think they do you credit."

"Trust my intuition, huh?" He paused. "Walker, I know Lady Une asked you to compile reports for her on all OZ mobile suit development. And I'm sure you heard about the Luxembourg memo on the New Economic Policy."

_There's a question somewhere there, I just know it_. Walker said nothing.

"What do you know about the new mobile suits being developed at Luna?"

He blinked. "Only what I've managed to look at in the Main Armaments Directorate database, which isn't much. I know there are two prototypes at Luna right now," he said.

"Her Excellency's being very protective of Project 'Bliznets', as she's called it."

"I noticed that much, though I lack the imagination to make up details."

Nichol looked him in the eye and then gave a sigh. "I'd really appreciate it if you could tell me with what I should be expecting here, sir."

"Well, then, I'll mention it to Colonel Une," he told him firmly.

Nichol kept staring at him, his jaw slack. "…please do that, sir. Thank you."

He departed with a salute, leaving Walker to fix his uniform. _I know why Nichol's so rattled. In the Alliance, a Speciali pilot might operate one day a week. Right now, I'm practically doing this every day. It's like being in the _Speciali _when the Gundams first arrived._

**IV**

"You know, watching it doesn't make it change any faster."

Lieutenant Colonel Andrews, OZ's Luxembourg Press Secretary, was sitting in the General Staff building at Diekirch, watching a TV news channel covering the declaration of the so-called 'Republic of Noventa' by L1-D-120 earlier that week. So far, Gwinter Septim's republic consisted of seven colonies, all in the First Lagrange Point's Area D, with D-120 being towards the 'edge' of the region.

"I can't decide what's more infuriating," he admitted. "That they declared a republic, or that they made a point of doing it before the New Economic Policy promoted the idea among the colonies."

He scratched his brow. "Why can't there be a simple solution?"

The question seemed directed at Edward Parsons, who stood at his door, file in hand, but chose not to respond. Instead he strolled through the office and up to the colonel's desk, dropping the thick file on the desk. "All the case summaries for the West Europe M.D., sir."

"Thank you."

"Will there be anything else, sir?"

"No, there won't."

Parsons saluted and held back his smile until he'd already turned away and was on his way out. It was best he keep his amusement to himself. He was by no means happy, but he'd always found the anxiety and unhappiness of those around him enjoyable. In the past, his superiors had lectured him humorlessly about it—not that his response was improper, but that he should make a point of hiding it. Some of that had rubbed off.

Climbing into the car waiting for him, he kicked his boots up and stretched out across the seat like he was a cat. Another officer, probably a week younger than Parsons at most, sat opposite of him, putting down a book he was reading.

"How'd he take it, sir?"

"Not that badly, actually," Parsons admitted, his face losing some of its cheerfulness. "Time was, he'd be pulling his hair out. I miss those days."

"I see, Lieutenant." Parsons also enjoyed quietly discomforting those beneath him, almost as much as he enjoyed the anxiety of his superiors. "At least it should be quiet here for…the next few weeks, until the pretrial finishes."

"I'm looking forward to it."

"And I've heard things are getting better on the Outer Space front," he added.

"What makes you say that?" Second Lieutenant Parsons asked, sounding rather disinterested.

"There's a senior officer in town, returning from Outer Space," the officer cadet explained, as their car came to a halt in front of the Military Commissariat. The two exited and the car departed, the officer cadet opening the door for him. The two stopped at security checkpoint, spotting Officer Cadet Perez on the other side.

"Mr. Perez, didn't a senior officer come down this morning?"

Perez just shrugged. "It wasn't Hopkins?"

"No, of course not. She came in with a member of the Space Forces General Staff," he explained as they passed through the security checkpoint, having passed the biometric scans. Parson's subordinate frowned. "This was a woman, tall and aloof-looking. Kind of melancholy, really."

The two strolled across the marble lobby and to the main staircase. "Perez, you _did _see her, right?"

"Sorry, sir. Yes, sir."

"Was she very pale, with very black hair?" he said, pointing at his own hair.

Parson's subordinate continued up the stairs, just as Parsons paused, quickly turned around made a straight line for the exit. "Yes, actually," he said, turning his head in time to see Parsons departing. "Sir, where are you…?" he asked just as the heavy doors slammed behind him. .

Amid of pair of taxing Aries mobile suits, in the shadow of an Illyushin cargo aircraft, Eva Cebotari stood with her briefcase next to Master Aircrew Serrati. The large, imposing warrant officer cut an equally impressive figure next to Eva, whom he managed to dwarf.

"Looks like you have a friend here to greet you, ma'am."

Eva's eyes narrowed. "Not a friend, Master Aircrew. Don't you have some important people to guard in a mobile suit?"

Serrati gave a low grunt before leaving with a salute. He saluted again as he passed Parsons, who rushed passed him.

"You didn't write back," Parsons told her.

"There wasn't anything to write back about."

Parsons stared at her and then threw his hands up into the air, exasperated.

**V**

In what was starting to feel like a daily occurrence, Walker was back in his normal suit, back in the cockpit of his Taurus. At least both had been cleaned of all regolith.

There was a ping on the channel, and Dac spoke. "_Container to Archer Two. Deployment completed. Please confirm._"

Walker tapped a switch next to the MFD set to his tactical display. On the screen, thirty-one points in the area forward of _Barge _were highlighted, amid a cloud of debris in Earth orbit. "Archer Two to Container, confirming deployment. Archer Two to Archer One, support team standing by."

Nichol responded. "_Archer Two acknowledged. Signaling the news team._"

In the container ship, Dac Bishop to the side of fellow polite officer Liu Enlai, watching the training minefield they'd deployed stretched out in front of him. Wearing his normal suit sans helmet, Dac stretched his arms and got comfortable in the pilot's seat, glancing at his copilot.

"This I nice, you know? Spacious, not being shot at, open view, not much shooting. Maybe those guys in Space Forces Logistics know what they're doing."

Liu kept his eyes planted on the instrumentation. "True, but you have to admit, it would seem like such a waste to get into the Mobile Suit Troops, just to drummed out. Especially after we were in the Specials."

Dac slumped down in his seat as much as his restraints would allow. "Right, I'd forgotten about that. Thank you for reminding me, Liu."

"I'm grateful every day for the Combat Engineers," Liu admitted. "Would you believe I had this unshakable fear I'd die on Earth, but at the same time, I don't think I could cut it as a frontline soldier? Especially after the Gundams showed up."

He gave a nervous laugh and toggled one of the MFDs, bringing up the training exercise program. "Crazy, isn't it? I'm sure that sounded a little ridiculous."

"Yes, ridiculous," Dac muttered back, clearly uncomfortable. "Completely ridiculous. By the way, did they tell you what the sealed cargo was?" he asked, eager to change the subject.

"Actually, no. Only the training mines. I imagine it's some kind of training mobile suit, maybe a mobile doll of some kind."

He nodded. _That does make sense, now that I think about it. _"Then why the secrecy?"

"I don't think Lady Une really likes any of us," he told him plainly.

Liu turned to him. "And?"

"And what?" Dac repeated, tapping a switch on the communications panel. "Lieutenant, this is Dac, should we just…?"

"_Yes, Container, please _continue _to stand by._"

"Yes sir," Dac repeated as Liu ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head, until his own comms beeped.

"Looks like the news team is in position. Patching them through over normal band, medium frequency." One a larger MFD screen, the video broadcast appeared, BBC's extraterrestrial affiliate's logo in the corner.

"_The video you see now is of a live, ongoing event held in Earth orbit. These young volunteers are vying for a position in the national guard forces that will defend their local colonies. Already possessing the qualifications to operate a mobile suit, these youngsters fared well in a simulation for maneuvers used in a real battle. Now in the vicinity of _Barge_, they'll run a live fire exercise that, which if they complete, will allow them to bypass the normal recruitment process and be inducted directly into the existing colonial militaries._"

Nichol was listening to the same broadcast, though communicating through the more typical tremendously high frequency radio band to the other units in the field. "For this next test, training mines simulating enemy troops have been placed along each mobile suit's path. These mines are imitations, but they do pack a punch. Stay frosty!"

"_Yes sir!_" he heard over the channel. Five cobalt blue Space Leo troops, each with a large number painted in white on its torso, one through five, moved in tight formation. Nichol had already switched his forward monitor display to a dedicated three dimensional tactical overlay, as thirty points of light moved into the area cube.

"_Commencing attack!_" Trainee No. 4 was the first to engage the mines, putting distance between him and the nearest—his maneuvers were respectable, but his beam rifle didn't actually manage to hit the mine before it impacted, exploding and knocking him about. Each training mine, each equipped with six high-powered RCS thrusters and a few kilos of Semtex explosive encased in a simple metal case, had a limited AI processor that allowed for some group maneuvering, which is precisely what they did when a half dozen descended on Trainees No. 2 and No. 3 as they tried to cover one another. Their concentrated beam fire was able to thin out the group, but not before, one impacted one trainee and two impacted the other. Soon after, two more hit Trainee No. 5.

A disheartened Nichol listened to their cries of discomfort and surprise over the channel. "What a disaster. Qualifications or not, they're just amateurs after all." He directed his attention to Trainee No. 1, who had broken off from the group earlier on. After a minute of imitating the others, the trainee abruptly broke off, pulled and roll and set his machine in a swift tunnel maneuver, picking the training drones one by one. Before the energy cell was drained, he'd managed to destroy every training mine in his vicinity.

"_Incredible! Did you see that guy?_" Nichol asked, shocked.

Dac looked at his own display. "Talk about burying the needle!"

"I don't think we can grade on a curve after that," Liu muttered.

"_This is Trainee No. 1, exercise complete_," a voice announced.

"_Trainee No. 1, remove your helmet and confirm your name!_" Arrow One ordered, as Nichol toggled the cockpit camera.

"_Fine._" The pilot removed his helmet on camera, revealing long brown hair swept forward so that it hid an eye at the angle. "_This is Trowa Barton_."

While the other officers were merely confused, Walker's biomedical readings, monitored on _Barge_, spiked three seconds after Trainee No. 1 announced his name. In his cockpit, he had actually jerked forward against the restraints. "Wait, what? Barton?!" he shouted at himself, having barely remembered to toggle his microphone off.

"_Arrow Two, is everything all right? Your readings just spiked._"

He forced himself back, trying to control his breathing, then toggled his microphone. "_This is Arrow Two. I'm fine, just...nothing._" He looked around his Taurus' cockpit, at Trowa Barton's face in the epicture-in-picture on his forward display, then yanked his notebook out of his pocket along with a pen.

On _Barge's _overbridge, Lady Une calmly watched Walker's biomedical readings return to normal. In his cockpit, Nichol shifted slightly uneasily when he spoke again. "_Colonel, this Trowa Barton is extraordinary. Even if this is just a simulation, it's unthinkable that he'd be able to perform maneuvers like that in his first battle!_"

"What are you implying?" she asked, her voice commanding him to remain calm.

"_He must have had some previous training he hasn't disclosed, at an extremely high level at that!_"

"But his background _has _been cleared, hasn't it?" Une glanced out of the corner of her eye. Behind her, among the officers, was First Lieutenant Hopkins, who nodded nervously.

"_Yes, and there were no issues._"

"Well then, he must have some natural talent that's been unused until today," she mused smugly.

"_Your Excellency, isn't it just as possible he's a saboteur? Even one of the Gundam pilots?_" Nichol asked on the military channel, causing Walker's readings to spike again.

Une put her gloved hands together, making it clear that she was enjoying the possibility. "Well, then, we'll find that out for ourselves," she said, closing the connection. "Signal Walker to open his sealed orders, then put me on the general channel."

"Yes ma'am, but is that…" Hopkins began, before Une, still smiling, shot him a look that literally caused him to shiver. He looked back at the console he was sitting at. _And I thought the major scared me. That is not a normal nineteen-year-old woman. _"General channel open. Everything you say _will _be heard by BBC, ma'am."

"That's what I'm counting on, Lieutenant."

In his cockpit, Walker took the metal foil envelope emblazoned with the OZ Space Forces insignia, then tore the un-forgeable security seal. The envelope had a single plastic sheet inside of it, which he unfolded and read. "Arrow 2 to Container. Open the remaining cargo container and detach the mooring cables."

"_Ah, yes sir!_" Bishop replied.

About three hundred meters ahead of Walker's machine, the remaining container block on the container ship opened up and a single, mobile suit-sized object rose out on its own inertia. After silently cursing another spike on his biomedical readings, he used his machine's camera magnification to bring up the cargo. "So that's where they put it."

XXXG-01D, the Gundam Unit 02. Or what was left of it. With a few carefully-planned thrusts, he maneuvered to it, held the crippled Gundam in his arms, then maneuvered to the staging area prescribed in the unsealed orders.

"_Arrow 2 to _Barge, _cargo is in position._"

Une smiled, as the debris field began to clear, allowing the still-stealthy Gundam to appear to come within visual range of the trainees. "Trowa Barton, we have a second test for you. Complete destroy the designated target."

There was a small twitch on Barton's biomedical readout. His cockpit camera was more telling. "_But that's…_" he muttered, clearly shocked.

Hopkins was sputtering from his position. "That…that could be anything! The Gundams are infamous, even out here and…" he began, only to stop when Une raised a single hand. They continued watching Barton, who was silently leaning forward in his cockpit.

"_What's wrong, Trowa Barton? You have your orders!_" Nichol demanded. After a moment, Barton's mobile suit jettisoned its beam rifle.

"_Colonel, did you see that? He is a spy! I'll get rid of the bastard!_" Nichol shouted, having already readied his beam cannon.

Behind Une, a telephone started ringing near Hopkins, whose eyes were planted on the main screen, though he did look briefly at Une, only to see she was still smiling.

Finally Barton responded. "_Lend me that beam rifle_."

"_What?_"

The trainee replied calmly. "_That thing is made of Gundanium alloy. My Leo's beam rifle isn't going to do the job._"

"_Ma'am_?"

"Go ahead, Mr. Nichol." Her eyes wandered from the screen. "Hopkins, do you plan on getting that?"

"Y-Yes, ma'am," he said, checking the telephone. "It's the BBC."

"Pick it up, Hopkins."

"Yes ma'am."

Walker, Bishop and Liu listened to the newsfeed. "_We've just received word that one of the Gundams, responsible for the recent conflicts and misunderstandings between Earth and the colonies, is about to be destroyed by a colonial citizen who wishes for peace. Ladies and gentlemen, stand by to witness this very exciting moment in history._"

"Good God, who writes this shit?" Liu asked as Bishop shushed him.

Having equipped the beam cannon, the Leo lowered it and aimed. "_This is Trainee No. 1, I'm commencing the second test."_ The beam cannon's emitter began glowing as it accumulated subatomic particles and nucleons with its magnetic fields, charged them with enormous electrical energy stored in its power cells, then propelled it at enormous speed at the nearby Gundam. Days earlier, a deliberate limb shot had crippled the Gundam. Now, a shot at the Gundam's center tore through what was left the chassis, vaporizing the complex polymers and titanium internal skeleton in a bright explosion.

An overbridge officer on _Barge _checked Barton's biomedical readings. "There was a _very_ brief emotional rise from the sympathetic nervous system and a globus sensation. Except for that earlier shift, the pilot's brainwaves, pulse and other readings have remained steady."

"So he's the perfect pilot," she observed.

"Your Excellency, I have to agree that this does appear extremely suspicious," the shift leader, sitting next to him, explained while glancing quickly at Hopkins.

Une seemed unphased. "Whoever he is, that boy is clearing willing to cooperate with OZ. Certain talented individuals are capable of understanding us." She looked over her shoulder again. "Wouldn't you agree, Hopkins?"

Hopkins didn't respond, though his body language said at least one thing: that he wished Major Cebotari was here, in his place.

Arrow 2 returned to _Barge _along with the container ship. Upon exiting his machine, Walker immediately floated over to a hangar phone, dialed traffic control, and put the handset to his ear, just as Dac disembarked from the now-empty container ship. Kanna, waiting in her slacks, boots and a red tank top, leapt from the walkway and in his direction.

"_Taichō!_ Taichō!"

Walker didn't seem to hear her, but she did see him pull his mobile out of his suit pocket and fumble about with it awkwardly. A second later, and he had the handset balanced on his shoulder, had slid the keyboard on his mobile open, his thumbs twitching rapidly.

"That was an awesome test! Looks like that Trowa Barton kid's a regular prodigy, huh?"

Walker kept fumbling with the two phones, waiting for a signal to get through on his mobile and for traffic control to answer.

"Boss, who are you calling?" she asked finally, pointing at his mobile rather than the handset.

"No one," he assured her.

"Really? Because you're holding two phones," Kanna pointed out as Mazuri floated after her. "Which I believe is a lot of phones not to actually be calling anyone."

Walker raised a finger as traffic control picked up. "Yes, I need schedules of departures to L3." When he was put on hold, he switched back to his mobile in his right hand.

"Who's the lieutenant messaging?" Mazuri asked Kanna.

"No one, apparently."

"Huh?"

Walker glanced anxiously at his mobile and then switched over to the handset again. "I see, thank you." He hung up the handset and glanced at his mobile again, before looking up at the others. "What's going on?"

"That's…actually what we were going to ask you, sir."

The F/L glanced at them, a nervous smile appearing from the corner of his mouth.

**VI**

The Lolland Demilitarized Zone: OZ's working military name for the Danish island that compromised all of the Sanc Kingdom's territory. It remained a tempting target for the Scandinavian Air Army and the Baltic Sea Squadron, which had grown in reputation in their stalwart resistance to OZ and European military suppression.

OZ's air defense batteries at Femø Island, stocked with powerful Eurasian-made 90N6 surface-to-air missiles, covered the entirety of Denmark, along with the Sanc Kingdom. The S-800M2 systems could accurately track, and shoot down, any Alliance weapon, including ballistic missiles, leading the Baltic Sea Squadron to play a bigger part in Alliance aggression. The missiles were not intended for use against small patrol boats. That left the scattered remains of the 88th Guards Brandenburger Order of Merit Division's 1st Company to exchange fire with fast-moving Alliance patrol boats.

With a pair of binoculars from the nearby island of Fejø, Relena Darlian watched the two cobalt blue OZ-06MS 'Leo' mobile suits, armed with siege guns, exchange fire with the patrol ships, dropping massive shell casings behind them with each powerful shot. Fejø was one of a number of islands around Lolland that the Sanc Kingdom formally claimed, but the Danes clearly controlled by virtue of having police, in uniform, operating on the islands. The Alliance agreed with Denmark, and OZ made no point of changing that policy.

As the dober guns thundered in the distance, Relena lowered her binoculars. It was true that OZ's troops, seemingly without thought or question, manned the defensive guns and mobile weapons that, most important of all, allowed for the return of the kingdom's refugees. They did not do it out of patriotism or loyalty, on the contrary, the divisions and battalions in the area were predominantly from western and southern Europe. They did so because they were ordered to do so, and OZ troops followed orders, whatever they were, unflinchingly.

"What am I going to do about you?" she asked herself, as a column of water indicated a successful sinking of an Alliance patrol boat, which on its way to the bottom of the strait would take around forty Alliance men and women down with it—those that weren't rescued by OZ seaplanes anyway. Relena didn't know how she felt about the Alliance, who every day tried to crawl a little closer to the Sanc Kingdom for reasons that weren't apparent to her personally.

"OZ…the Alliance…the European armies…what am I going to do about them?" she muttered again. The Danish Royal Army, which held positions where OZ didn't, proved that the kingdom's philosophy hadn't caught on quite as much as she'd thought it would have.

_Worst of all, I don't think OZ even cares about me anymore. _OZ hadn't stopped her from entering the kingdom, nor leaving for Danish territory. The Danish police, two of whom were discreetly watching her in their black uniforms down the road, followed her more. She didn't know what to make of it.

There was the crack of a sonic boom, and she looked up just in time to see four flying mobile suits pass over. The blurs passed too quickly for her to make out their colors, and they departed north as soon as they'd appeared.

_OZ's soldiers and weapons, they're everywhere. Even here, where pacifism was going to change the world, _she thought with a deep sigh. It was not the first time she'd forgotten that legally, she was not in the Sanc Kingdom.

**VII**

His arms still filled with manila folders, Hopkins made his best time to _Barge'_s cadet barracks on the outer structural ring, beating his personal record by almost twenty seconds. In the fitting room annex just off the cadet's barracks, the second-highest scoring pilot of the trainees—a tall, athletic Caucasian man—was sitting in a barber's chair in military-issue undergarments.

"Trainee No. 4, Sean Thompson. Native to Luna from Copernicus City, came in second during the live-fire exercise."

"Uh, good afternoon sir," Thompson sputtered, looking equal parts excited and anxious. "Who are you?"

"Lieutenant Hopkins, Military Commissariat. That light blue recruitment application you signed on Luna had our name it?"

Thompsons kept staring.

"We oversee all recruitment into OZ, including yours into the colonial militia," he said, not taking his eye off the file. "What seems to be the problem?"

A military barber from subcontinental Asia, distinguishable by the long white coat he wore over his hunter green uniform, sighed. "Trainee, pull up your sleeve please?"

Hopkins looked up and nearly let his folder go floating away. "What the hell is _that_?"

Thompson—a fit, clean-shaven young man with frizzy, dirty brown hair—had a huge mark extending from the tip of his right shoulder to just above the elbow. Hopkins quickly approached, put on his reading glasses, and stared: it wasn't just a 'mark', but an exactingly detailed rendition of a woman with very exaggerated features and long blond hair that reached down to her waist. 'She' was dressed in what looked like an impossibly-tight black-and-violet normal suit with large pieces of hard material affixed over the shoulders, thighs, elbows and part of her stomach, and was carrying a handgun in one hand with her other resting on her waist. The whole thing was amazingly detailed, to the point that Hopkins thought he was looking at a magazine illustration.

"I am literally lost for words," Hopkins announced.

"You sound like my girlfriend," Thompson replied, elbowing the barber while trying to elicit a laugh.

"It's going to take a few hours to remove," the barber told Hopkins. "And I'll need the laser, the painful one."

"Oh come on! This thing cost me a fortune! You know how hard it is for a sixteen-year-old to save up…"

"Trainee Thompson," he said, interrupting him, still marveling in the tattoo's detail. "You must realize you _can't _keep this thing and expect to be in the Mobile Suit Troops. Or _any _military force, for that matter."

"Why not?"

"You know _exactly _why. Frankly, I'm amazed your family, or the Copernicus City authorities, let you get it in the first place. How old are you?"

"Eighteen. So let me get this straight, Lieutenant, I'm old enough fight and die for Luna and the colonies, but not to get a tattoo?" he countered.

"If you were a Jew or a Sunni Muslim, it wouldn't matter _how _old you were," Hopkins responded, flipping through his file and looking for some mention of this or any other tattoos. "Or, for that matter, if you were a citizen of Eurasia, China, Israel, Japan, or the Republic of Utah. Plenty of countries, really."

"What about my freedom of expression?"

"What freedom of expression? You're applying to OZ, not the Bar association."

"Don't the Royal Marines do it? And the Californians?" the barber offered.

"Not in OZ, but yes, I've heard that isn't uncommon in certain armies."

"I take it you don't see a lot of tattoos on Earth, sir?" Thompson asked incredulously.

"Not really. Well, that's not true, I know a Flight Lieutenant Maitua, a Samoan Australian, who has a partial _pe'a_, a sort of 'man's pride' tattoo, and that's permitted." He turned to Thompson again. "But I'm guessing it's not a culturally significant for white Lunarians to have a huge-breasted blonde bombshell in metal fetish gear tattooed on their arm." That got a laugh from the barber.

"It's not…it's a character from television, sir!"

"Really?"

"Yes! It's a sci-fi mecha series, it's popular in Outer Space. They…they fight a monstrous alien invasion with mobile suit-looking robots called tactical…you're not listening to me, are you, sir?"

"Are those her nipples?" Hopkins asked loudly, adjusting his glasses. Thompson rolled his eyes again.

"I'm just amazed at the level of detail," the barber admitted. "You can see the sights on the pistol, the insignia on those shoulder plates."

"And her _navel_."

"…I'm going to have to get this remove, aren't I, sir?"

Hopkins nodded. "You don't have any others, do you? If I ask you to take off your shirt, you're not going to have another bombshell in a fetish suit grinding against a machine gun, are you?"

Thompson gave a tired sigh and began pulling off his undershirt. "It's not _that _bad."

There was the sound of the door to the annex sliding open and Hopkins turned to see Walker leaning in, looking inquisitive.

"I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?"

"No sir," Hopkins groaned, while the barber stood at attention. "Can I help you with something?"

"I need to know where the Space Forces CAST Operations Office is."

"It's next to their barracks, in the wing beyond this one. Same level."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome sir," Hopkins muttered, looking back at Thompson. Walker was floating down the hall on the guiderail just in time to hear Hopkins yell about something else despairingly, but ignored it on his way to the CAST Ops Room—Space Forces Colonial and Asteroid Strike Troops, OZ's extraterrestrial naval infantry. The office was actually just an extension of the infantry armory attached to the CAST barracks on _Barge_, with a single large, Caucasian NCO sitting behind a rather empty looking desk. The soldier, upon seeing Walker, rose to his feet quickly and saluted.

"Flight Lieutenant, sir, good afternoon. What can I do for you?"

Walker eyed the NCO's gear; the soldier was wearing an armored, combat-grade version of an OZ normal suit, covered with flexible plates of body armor and colored hunter green, with a CAST shoulder patch sewn to the sleeve. His bulky armored helmet was sitting on the desk.

"Excuse me, soldier…?"

"Warrant Officer Cameron, sir, of the Royal Canadian Marines 20 Commando," he said, lowering his arm.

"Of course, Mr. Cameron," Walker said, glancing at the closed racks of infantry weapons stored behind him, than back at the marine. "Flight Lieutenant Walker, Seventh Division. This will sound strange, but I need civilian clothes for a trip to an L3 colony, something inconspicuous, if you have it."

"Of course, Flight Lieutenant, right this way."

"What's with the gear?" Walker asked him as he led him to a wall of lockers.

"Not familiar with CAST, sir? We do mostly keep to ourselves. I'm forty-two seconds from being in full combat gear this way," he explained proudly, opening one of the lockers and sorting through the shelves of normal clothes sealed in plastic bags. "How about this, sir?"

"Do you have anything that's not jeans?"

"One second, sir." He handed him another bag of clothes. "Will you need a sidearm, Flight Lieutenant?" he asked, gesturing to Walker's empty holster.

"Yes, actually. You don't have anything small and concealable, do you?"

"What caliber, sir?"

"…bullet caliber would be fine," Walker half-joked.

Cameron chuckled and gestured at the armory's contents with his free arm. "Sir, when it comes to small arms, you came to the right place," Cameron told him, grinning. "I'll get you sorted out right, Flight Lieutenant."

Walker nodded and waited for Cameron to turn away before checking the screen of his mobile—still no response after his own last message.

**Maya, we need to talk. If not here, then face-to-face. **

**VIII**

In the commune of Ettelbruck, Parsons and Eva sat in the single occupied booth of a small café on Canal Road, listening to music on the radio drone on as the proprietor stood half-asleep behind the counter.

"I heard Parker bit the big one on C-102. Blown up by one of our own mobile dolls," Parsons pointed out, stretching out across the seats, his back against the wall.

"That's how it happened," Eva confirmed quietly. "He always was the canary in the coal mine, wasn't he?"

"Heero Yuy and his comrades can murder us all they want, the General Staff and the Foundation will just sending officers out," he assured her, still grinning. As usual, it was all just a joke to him. "Speaking of murder, according to Andrews, the General Staff is moving away from expanding the Taurus mobile doll program. Villemont's going to have complete control over the mobile doll initiative, the rest of the competition has been canned."

"And who's the rest of the competition?"

"A bunch of nobodies and Seis Clark's brother. A nobody with a famous older brother." He let one of his feet fall to the floor and propped his arms up on the counter and back of the seat, as though getting more comfortable. "Whatever's going to happen up there, 'Old Man Tubarov' is going to be supplying all the guns and ammo. Think of the aneurysm it's going to give Une."

Eva didn't respond, still holding a cup of coffee and staring out the window.

"Something wrong? Don't let her get to you, Une's always been insane, the madwoman blackmailed the Gundam pilots with nuclear weapons. She's unstable, end of story."

"That's not the end of the story," she warned him softly. Parsons raised an eyebrow. "Have you ever actually thought about where we're going? Where the road ends after D-120, after the Gundams?"

Resting his elbows on the table, Parsons leaned forward and frowned at her. "You're a mess."

"It's something you should think about," she warned him.

"Uh, excuse me," the proprietor called out across the room. "It's Sunday, and we do close early, sirs."

"And why would that be?" Parsons sneered back, moving his hand away from the mostly-empty plate and putting it over his fork and knife.

"Well it's just…we…it's Sunday, and the..."

Parsons cut him off. "We're quite comfortable, so I think we'll be staying a little longer," he explained coolly. The proprietor shrank behind his counter again.

"I see you've been amusing yourself here," Eva mumbled, staring into her coffee cup.

"We all have to make do. But now that you're back, I can think of something very entertaining that would be worth our time," he said, letting the knife he'd picked up fall to the floor and reaching for his pocket. He took out his mobile and turned the screen to face Eva: on it was a still image of Relena Darlian, crossing a bridge by garishly pink limousine.

"Really? Her again?"

"Come now, compared to what you've been doing, it'll be fun. You know I'm right."

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Well, another reference forced in there like a square peg into a round hole. I always knew I'd have a bit of fun at a certain, fan service-heavy ero game turned mecha series, hopefully I wasn't alone. How does _that_ stand up compared to Trowa Barton? _

_CAST—I'm actually kind of proud of that acronym, I'm usually not that good with them—is naturally _Wing_'s_ _answer to the ECOAS from UC, specifically _Gundam Unicorn. _Not just because I like _Unicorn—_I'm sure it's apparent I do_—_but because the particular function is incredibly important. Mobile suits are among the worse weapons you could use to secure colony, despite being the only way to fight other mobile weapons, when you consider the risk to the pilots, collateral damage to the structure, and harm to any residents. If you had the option, a few battalions of purpose-trained assault troops, armed with anti-mobile weapons as necessary, are a much better option for securing a colony that houses a million people or more during a long conflict. Naturally, this is going to only be a bigger issue with the lead up to the assault on D-120, if anything, I should have introduced CAST earlier._

_Interesting (maybe) fact about tattoos: in some social spheres, they're just as taboo as they are acceptable in others. Religious mandates disavowing tattoos are as strong as those encouraging them, perhaps more so, and for multiple countries (like Japan, China, Taiwan, Russia and perhaps Ukraine) tattoos in urban life are almost exclusively the domain of organized crime, and military personnel don't get them either. So a 'harmless' body decoration is given social weight (the same reason anyone does anything frequently), and that's before you consider the common religious rules against tattoos. In this, body art is just a distinction between the 'free-spirited' colonies and 'held back by gravity' Earth, but you better believe that if there colonies with predominantly Chinese, Japanese, or Sunni Mulsim populations, they're going to discourage the practice too._

_Of course, in many military forces getting a tattoo is practically a prerequisite, and a nearly an identifying symbol of a particular unit. In the United States Marines, tattoos are a time-honored tradition, while in the defunct German SS, they were a requirement. There's no indication of which one the UESA (and OZ by proximity) would be, so I'm simply guessing in my case on the basis that the few times we see military personnel's arms or chests (like Zech's), none of them have tattoos. _


	33. The Barton Identity, II

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 33 – The Barton Identity, II**

While a certain flight lieutenant was frantically running about, two opposing things happened: Lieutenant Colonel prepared to speak personally with Trainee No. 1, Trowa Barton, on Space Fortress _Barge _and the confirmed-Gundam pilot named Heero Yuy was infilitrating the moon, using a different method than Walker had used prior. With his usual approach, he lurked about Marius City until he spotted a gap in the security perimeter around, then broke the necessary necks to get to a security room.

"Still making the same mistakes, Une," he muttered. As on Earth, there was a blind spot in the security control room, since military computers were inherently compartmentalized and a saboteur couldn't exploit those system. OZ _still_ wasn't prepared for someone to walk into a security room, kill everyone, and stay quiet about it. "You let a relative of the real Hereo Yuy sneak into here, and now me. You're fortunate that we weren't cooperating, or we wouldn't have had to use the same methods."

Yuy had recently become aware of Shalua Yuy, and even had rough idea of some of her own snooping, though it wasn't his business to understand why, just how. He knew she was more entitled to carry the Yuy name than he was, an actual relation to the real Heero Yuy, but beyond that, he didn't give it much thought.

With a half dozen cleanly-killed corpses behind him, Yuy access the main terminal, like a sociopathic version of his namesakes' sneaky grandniece who had come before him. With some effort, he found the nearby assembly hall that housed what he was looking for: the prototype mobile suits Mercurius and Vayeate, as displayed on the screen.

"So these are the new mobile suits." He could do nothing to interfere with them from the security computer, but it told him what he needed to know—their planned armament, like the second thermonuclear fusion reactor carried in Vayeate's backpack generator, the anti-beam treated carbon ceramic coating over Gundanium alloy, and so forth.

"The components are still being developed. I'll destroy them," he muttered under his breath, before departing. "Shalua won't do it, after all."

In the skies over Marius Crater, between Luna and Earth, Trowa Barton brought his OZ-06SMS 'Space Leo' into a docking tunnel for a quick assisted landing, using its left manipulator to hold onto a mobile suit-sized guide rail that slowed him to a halt. He opened his cockpit door and floated towards the acess tunnel, leaving his machine kneeling.

By the time he cleared the airlock, Tycho Nichol was already yelling orders at him. "Trainee No. 1, Colonel Une wishes to speak with you."

"_Understood_," his voice came back, as Nichol waited outside Une's stateroom anxiously. He'd made his distrust of Trowa Barton abundantly clear already. When Une exited the room in civilian dress, he felt a new rush of panic. "Colonel Une, this is dangerous! It's entirely possible that he's a Gundam pilot!"

'Ambassador Une' took a calm, reassuring tone with him. "I think it'd be best to meet him by myself."

"What?"

"He's come here to try and understand us. It'd be rude not to meet with him in person. I'm sure we'll have many things to talk about, as two individuals with a love of Outer Space."

"Colonel!" he repeated.

She just kept smiling at him. "Flight Officer Nichol, what are you so afraid of?"

He cocked his head. "…afraid of?"

Une gave a feminine smirk, almost a giggle. "We're here to put an end to the fighting, aren't we?"

In a changing room in _Barge_'s cadet barracks, Second Lieutenant Hopkins tried to put the screaming of someone undergoing the first of a number of tattoo removal laser treatments out of his mind as Barton entered the room, still wearing his normal suit, helmet under one arm. Another shiver went up his spine, having less to do with Trowa Barton himself and more Colonel Une's glance from earlier. Looking at him, Barton seemed like a typical OZ Mobile Suit Troops youth recruit—a teenager of medium build, clean shaven and reasonably good-looking, at least presentable.

"Congratulations, Officer Cadet Barton," he said, offering his hand, which Barton quickly took.

"Thank you, sir."

"Pilot qualification is…always a bit strange," he confided in him. "Instead of spending a year at the academy, you get the fast track to a commission as a pilot officer, the equivalent of a second lieutenant." He found a particular locker on the wall, opened it with a press of the thumb scanner, and took out a folded wool officer cadet's uniform, cut the same as his own, though with different insignia and the gold piping of the Mobile Suit Troops. He floated it over to Barton. "Where was your training?" he asked, despite having read exactly here on his dossier.

"Militia troops at L3, before the fall of the Alliance," he said, sounding entirely truthful, as he took the uniform. "But after I dropped out, I worked in a labor mobile suit unit."

Hopkins nodded. "You know, we're fighting a few of your ilk who came before you," he explained. "Some of the most fanatical defenders of Republic of Noventa are colonial pilots, mostly from L1 but other Lagrange points as well."

"Really?" he asked, sounding mildly interested.

"Well, get changed. At the risk of being premature, welcome to the OZ Space Mobile Suit Troops."

**II**

With the exception with a brief encounter with another OZ officer—this one in civilian dress, who clearly recognized him and immediately drifted by, a hand raised before his face—Barton had no issue reaching Colonel Une's lightly but elegantly furnished meeting room.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, I am Lady Une," she explained softly as he saluted. Though he was sure the room was being monitored, they were otherwise alone.

_So this is Lady Une, the same Lady Une who is commander-in-chief of OZ Space Forces. _When she gestured at him to take a seat opposite the small table, he lowered his arm and sat down.

"So you've had experience with labor mobile suits in the field of repairing the outer walls of space colonies," Une asked, holding his dossier. "Your outstanding test results today have my associates in the military completely baffled."

"Despite everything, I always felt I had what it took to be a soldier. So I've been accepted into the Mobile Suit Troops?" he asked.

"Yes, let's work together to bring peace to Outer Space," Une said, her voice taking on a dreamy quality.

"I just hope that my skills will be useful defeating the Alliance Space Forces. Actually, I'd never thought about peace in Outer Space," he told her. "So I felt I was the right kind of man for OZ."

Une blinked, apparently confused. "The right kind of man?"

"I'm impressed by OZ's gradual takeover of Outer Space, while maintaining the image of friendship. Some people might call that dishonest, but I'm fine with it."

"Taking over? Dishonest, you say?"

"OZ clearly acknowledge cunning and craftiness. That's what I'm saying," he explained, sounding increasingly familiar with Une.

"No…no," Une mumbled, her shoulders beginning to shake. "That's not true though," she told him, holding her face with both hands. "That's not true!"

As Une kept shaking, the French doors swung pen and Nichol and two other junior officers rushed to her.

"Colonel, ma'a! Get the colonel back to her state room for rest," Nichol ordered the other two as Barton stood up.

Lieutenant Hopkins gestured to the door. "Please, Colonel, this way." By then, Une had stopped shaking and closed her eyes, her face full of undirected scorn.

"What was that about?" Barton asked, sounding genuinely curious. To his left, Nichol had already drawn his sidearm and pointed it threateningly at him.

"You. You might have the colonel fooled, but not me. Trowa Barton, the colonel has ordered that you leave with us in two hours to test out two new mobile suits."

"But…the colonel…?"

"Just know that Colonel Une is a much stronger woman when in uniform. She might dispute the necessity of terminating someone as suspicious as yourself."

In the dim light of her stateroom, Une delicately held her glasses in both hands.

"Am I OZ's Lady Une?" she whispered to the mirror in front of her. "Or am I Treize's?"

**III**

"According to Nichol, that Barton guy is creep central," Kanna informed Walker as he waited in the cargo hangar.

For a split second, Flight Lieutenant Walker considered telling Kanna what he'd seen the day before: that the five Gundam scientists, one of whom Walker recognized by appearance, were at Luna, building weapons for OZ, or at least Lieutenant Colonel Une. _No, keep that to yourself, for the time being. _

"And I know I've heard that name before. Barton, Barton…"

"I feel the same," he assured her. Walker had traded his hunter greens for a dark grey three piece suit, perhaps a little on the formal side, but still civilian dress. He was also a nervous wreck, just barely keeping himself from shaking. "Keep an eye on him while I'm gone."

"So you're sure you're going to do this?"

"I don't think I have a choice. She's not responding at the worst possible time. Let's see if I luck out and find her base of operations—if I do, I should know quickly. She can't have me walking around a colony like this."

_He really isn't prepared to do this sort of thing, is he?_ Kanna kept nodding helpfully.

"At least, that's what I think," he admitted. "Really, of the plans I came up with, this just happen to be the least bad of them. That might be a little hard to believe though."

"So, aren't you forgetting something?" she asked. When he looked back at her, she pointed to the base of her throat, and Walker felt the collar of his shirt and realize he was still wearing his trademark goggles.

"Of course. I am not at all suited for this," he scoffed, removing his goggles over his head and handing them to Kanna. She reached into her pockets and presented him with a pair of thick upper-framed glasses.

"Try these out, they're non-prescription."

Walker looked at them and put them on, adjusting them over his ears.

"How do I look?"

"_Not _like an OZ officer," she promised.

He nodded. "Am I shaking?"

"Barely."

"I'm not cut out for clandestine work at all," he told her. "Sneaking around Luna was one thing, and I managed to screw that up, sort of. When I joined the _Speciali_, I never thought I'd be doing anything at all like a self-planned covert operation in Outer Space."

"You got nothing to worry about, boss," she said, smacking him on the back.

"How do you know that? Have you done this before?"

"Oh me?" Kanna asked. "God no. I'm a two-meter-tall dark skinned Asian woman who's been dying her hair red since middle school. What do you think?" she asked. "Earth Sphere is still too racist for me to do that. But I did do some theater in the past."

"Oh, that's very reassuring," Walker mumbled, as she patted him on the back again.

"It's L3, you'll blend in," Kanna said with a smile.

In his dapper dark grey suit, Walker looked up at the small passenger shuttle docked next to a cargo transport, then jumped up towards it. Kanna watched him disappear among the ships and sighed, scratching her head.

"Man, I really hope he doesn't get himself killed."

**IV**

As the security breech went unreported, Lady Une arrived at the Marius City Plant on schedule, taking with her Nichol and the five new officer cadets recruited from Outer Space. For Nichol, this was an unexpected privilege—even Hopkins and the Military Commissariat weren't officially supposed to be aware of Une's pet project on Luna, a decision that alienated some of Une's subordinates. She didn't care.

In the sealed-off assembly hall, home to both the prototypes and the housing for the staff involved, he got his first look at the two incomplete mobile suits.

"God damn," he muttered, staring at the massive beam cannon carried by the medium blue mobile suit, the largest he'd ever seen, even bigger than the one he'd seen carried by Gundam-01.

"Not bad," Une commented smugly.

"So this is what Colonel Villemont has been so desperate to get his hands on. Even if you're all about mobile dolls, it's damned impressive," Nichol added.

"Huh," one of the cadets, Thompson, remarked.

"I see it didn't take you long to find pilots!" The observation came from the self-appointed leader of the five prisoner-researchers, the 'Gundam scientists' as they called themselves. He wore the same design bureau white as his comrades, but had a pair of cybernetic eyes and a very crude prosthetic hand, which he rested on the control console in front of him. Just as Nichol remembered, they were a motley looking bunch.

"These five citizens of Luna and the colonies have been selected as prospective pilots. Particularly this one, Trowa Barton, is an outstanding pilot. He should have no trouble piloting any machine."

"These mobile suits aren't like the machines you're used to," the designer announced, leaning on his cane with his remaining hand.

"I've heard they're better than the Gundams. I'm looking for to it."

Une chuckled. "What progress have you made?"

"This one, Mercurius, is approximately eighty percent complete. The other, Vayeate, is just over fifty percent complete."

Une studied the two models—their technological inspiration from the base model Leo was unmistakable, though both models featured extensive cooling intakes and outtakes on either side of the cockpit and reactor housing. Their primary camera eyes were protected by armored shields, and each had a radio fin topping the head. "Remind me why you developed two separate models?"

_The Twins weren't her idea? _Nichol didn't bother hiding is surprise.

"We designed these two units to embody opposing principles of engagement—that is, the extremes of offense and defense."

One of the leader's associates spoke up, a short man with a comically long nose, almost certainly the product of disguising cosmetic surgery. "Vayate's design is built around the highest-power beam cannon possible without hurting maneuverability. With Mercurius, we've resurrected your old active defense system to create a shield that could resist such a beam attack."

"So which would win if they fought each other?"

"Well, I'd say the one with the better pilot."

"I'm sorry, is that some sort of _joke_?" Nichol demanded, detecting the thinly-disguised mockery in the researcher's voice.

"So the mobile suit development race is meaningless, since their combat value comes down to the skill of the pilots?"

"Very perceptive, I can see why you were selected by OZ," the leader teased. "You're correct."

"Mr. Barton, shut up!" Nichol ordered.

"Leave him alone, Mr. Nichol," Une snapped. "He'll be piloting one of these mobile suits, I'll allow him to ask questions."

"Uh, yes ma'am," Nichol replied, backing off.

"I've heard you'll be demonstrating some of their capabilities today," Barton asked.

"Yes, I'd like to show Mercurius' defense systems," the leader explained, gesturing at the nearby OZ-13MSX2 prototype before powering up its systems with the nearby controls. The APUs attached to Mercurius's umbilical cord mounted just under the reactor core hummed to life, and were joined by the defensor disks, which began to twitch and vibrate. "We've resurrected the old naval active defense system developed by OZ and made it practical in combat. It uses these defensor discs to project a powerful magnetic field than can deflect the field of beam cannon fired at it."

"And Vayeate?" Barton asked.

"Vayate still needs work before an effective demonstration. Its reactor isn't even online yet," the leader admitted, just to be cut off by a the unmistakable sound of a magnetohydrodynamic system coming on line as superheated plasma began to spin inside a fusion reactor. Seemingly confused, the researchers turned in the direction of the OZ-13MSX1 unit, suspended from the ceiling, just after its camera monoeye came on.

"Oh my," one added.

"Vayate's moving!"

"This isn't part of the demonstration?" Nichol asked.

On a nearby monitor display, Une watched the Vayeate's oversized back-mounted auxiliary power unit open up, revealing a charging cyclotron surrounded by a second fission reactor. By then, the cyclotron was already lit up. By the time it raised its long-barreled beam cannon, Une and the others had taken cover.

"What the hell is going on?"

"You old idiot, raise Mercurius' shields!" the leader ordered, as the second designer ran to the console and raised the APUs to full power before ordering Mercurius to reposition. It jettisoned its umbilical cord and stomped into position between the researchers and Vayeate, raising its arms and unlocking its defensors, which awkwardly bounced around on their magnetic field before they formed a barrier.

What happened next was both inevitable and fortunate: Vayeate fired a full-power blast from its beam cannon, which still came in beneath half of full power, comparable to the output from one of a _Ganymede_-class's smaller capital ship turrets. Likewise, the magnetic flux rating of Mercurius's defensive field was less than half of the combat maximum. Had the former been at full power, everyone in the assembly hall would have been cooked in the superheated oxygen; had the later been at full power, the magnetic flux probably would have destroyed every unshielded computer.

After a blind flash, during which Nichol threw himself in front of Une with the cry of "Colonel!" and the Gundam designers fell to their knees, the harnesses holding Vayeate gave free and the four-tonne mobile suit and its two-tonne beam rifle went plummeting to the floor with a deafening crash. Almost immediately, the defensor disks went silent and, without their magnetic field holding them in place, did the same.

Officer Cadet Thompson was one of the first people to open his eyes, the air around him still uncomfortably hot and ionized. He looked just in time to see, past the fallen researchers, Officer Cadet Barton aiming the service pistol—the one he'd taken from Nichol—at the open cockpit. A young man roughly the same age as Barton was holding his hands over his head and rose to his feet. Barton then led him over to the group.

"Are you going to make it?" one researcher asked the leader.

"Uh…" he mumbled back, writing in arthritic pain. "What did I tell you? I've built one hell of a weapon."

"That's for damn sure. Look who came after us thanks to it!" he replied while Nichol helped Une to her feet and, using the control console, belatedly sounded the general alarm.

**V**

While OZ dealt with its little fiasco at the Marius Crater Factory, Walker forced himself to at least appear relaxed while the civilian shuttle arrived at a transit station orbiting at the edge of the third Lagrange Point. From there, he paid out of pocket for another shuttle out of pocket to take him to the youngest colony in the area, L3-X-18999. The two flights couldn't have been more different: not surprisingly, the longer first flight was filled largely with men, not soldiers—or at least not in uniform—but civilian contractors and businessmen. The second flight was more equally distributed, with no uniforms onboard, and something he hadn't experienced in a commercial transport in years: a crying baby several rows behind him.

It caught him completely off-guard. He was no stranger to civilian air and space travel, and recalled that when he was purchasing the ticket, the clerk behind the counter had not dutifully asked the prerequisite question, "Are you travelling with any small children?" before asking him about his nonexistent luggage. His entire life, he'd never flown on a commercial aircraft that wasn't divided into flights that allowed small children and flights that prohibited them, a practice that dated back centuries, well before commercial space flight had taken off and was adopted from commercial air travel.

He did his best to behave normally—the Colonials he was sitting around either looked unaffected or mildly annoyed. Exhausted from the past few days, Walker thought about trying to sleep, but found his nerves were too frayed even before you factored in the loud infant, and he hadn't slept on the earlier, longer flight either. He considered having a drink, but decided against it—the last thing he wanted to do was arrive on X-18999 tipsy. After an hour of listening to the baby, he decided to stand up and use the lavatory—he checked the concealed shoulder holster lent to him by CAST, and the accompanying sidearm: a small, American-made hammerless semi-automatic pistol in the common 9 mm military caliber, seven rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. Military handguns tended to be large and difficult to conceal, but for his purposes, a civilian weapon was fine.

He arrived at L3-X-18999 approximately fifteen hours after leaving _Barge_, thankful that the space fortress had been orbiting opposite Luna when he was able to leave—at its current altitude, _Barge _completed a revolution around Earth about every six hours—and that he was still awake and fairly alert. Walker had no idea what to expect when he arrived, and looked for any sort of military presence outside the colony as they made their final approach: no warships, no mobile suits.

Walker was appropriately surprised. As usual, L3-X-18999 was a Stanford 'Island Two' layout colony with a bracing cross rather than the usual long bracing arm, each merging into four agriculture and industry 'spikes' separate from the primary wheel. Even from outside it was apparent that the colony itself was newly completed, lacking the usual signs of micrometeorite damage or damage from the Alliance Navy or Colonial spacecraft. The colony interior was filled with unfinished skyscrapers, parking garages and commercial complexes, with cranes and gantry work all around him.

He stood at a bus stop staring at the transit map on the wall. _Well, if we had an installation here, it wouldn't necessarily be public, would it? Or on a bus map, for that matter. _He rubbed his forehead before climbing on the arriving bus. Sitting in the back, he took out his mobile: no messages. He sent out another one.

**I'm in L3-X-18999. **

He paused, staring out the bus window at the sparse traffic, before glancing out the window: a large skyscraper passed by, a complete building that looked like the metropolitan headquarters government. It was surrounded by more police in local black uniforms. Raising his mobile, he took a picture and attached it to the message.

**Look at this if you don't believe me.**

The response was very fast.

**Okay, seriously, what are you doing here? **

Walker couldn't help but snicker a little bit.

**I bet you know I'm here, how about you come and find me? Wasn't you that job in the first place?**

Another fast response, faster than Walker could type with his thumbs on the sliding keyboard.

**I bet you think you're really smart! It's not cute, remember that. Go to the New Schocken Department Store, before you get yourself into more trouble, smart guy. **

_Am I even talking to the same person? _It didn't sound like her at all. Walker was already regretting using a mobile in this manner; he couldn't fathom what might lead to split personalities between human and telecommunication. He adjusted the glasses he was wearing and yawned, trying not to draw attention to himself. He got off the bus at a stop in the shopping district, directly in front of an incomplete shopping center surrounded by wood fences.

"'Brought to you by the Evergreen Construction, a wholly-owned subsidiary of the Barton Foundation.' There's that name again," he told himself softly as he waited for a chance to cross to the New Schocken Department Store, a 10-story building next to a parking garage. As he walked, his glasses broadcasted a high frequency, lightly-encrypted signal through an antenna concealed in the left temple arm over his ear. Having left the transport shuttle, its signal now piggybacked onto the antennas out of the space colony, and over several minutes, made its way to Earth orbit.

Back on _Barge_, sitting next to a notebook computer with her companions, Kanna looked at pamphlet she was holding.

"According to this…the microcamera's transmitter operates on the lower end military band, sending data to OZ's satellite network at L3, which relays it to Earth and _Barge_, where we are." She turned a page. "The twelve minute delay is due to power saving and miniaturization, it says."

"Oh, that's useful. Black-and-white _and _delayed," Dac muttered.

"Next we're it turns out the audio's running backwards," Mazuri added.

"Ajay, Dac, shut up," Kanna instructed, leaning over the screen. "Looks like the video's finished buffering."

The video from Walker's eye level returned to normal and they could see he was walking around a trendy upper-class department store, turning towards an expensive looking café. He paused, turning around in what must have been a painfully obvious manner, and then glanced at his mobile too fast for them to make out the screen.

"Crap, what was that?" Dac asked.

"His mobile, _duh_," Kanna teased.

"He's moving again," Ajay said, pointing.

Walker strolled forward, towards an empty table near the bay windows, where he sat down. For another minute nothing happened, and then he turned his head just in time for them to see someone approaching him.

"Hey, is that her?" Dac asked.

The figure, a woman, became clearer in the low resolution video as she approached. By the time she was three meters away, they could clearly make out details: she had fair skin, long, wavy brown hair, and was wearing a short black skirt and a short-sleeved white blouse, both expensive-looking and paired with an expensive-looking belt. They really hadn't expected her to be particularly fashionable or attractive, even if none of them had any more experience in this area than Walker did.

"_That_'s Walker's source?" Mazuri asked incredulously. "This must be some sort of elaborate joke. Right now he's laughing at us, silently."

"Yeah, but could Walker of all people pull that off?" Dac asked.

"Good point. But there must be some kind of mistake. I've seen Walker practically suffer a nervous breakdown in front of a pretty woman…Kanna, stop rolling your eyes!" he demanded sharply.

"She's pretty hot, I'll give you that," Kanna admitted, sounding impressed. "Maybe she isn't some sort of secret contact. Maybe Walker's just..."

Kanna frowned. "It makes sense, but I can't imagine Walker being that popular," she admitted.

"Agreed," the other two said in unison, before looking at one another.

The three kept staring at the video, upon which Kanna pointed something out. "She hasn't actually said anything, has she?"

"You know, she hasn't."

The pretty woman raised one of her arms, displaying a mobile in her hand, which began moving rapidly back and forth. The video then abruptly shifted, as Walker took off the glasses and set them on the counter halfway between himself and the woman, pointed a bit to her left. Due to the camera's narrow field of vision, it video basically only captured the top of her blouse visible over the tabletop and the occasional person walking by.

More silence. "Wow," Mazuri said quietly.

"I'll say," Kanna muttered.

"You know, even though she's shorter, she looks like she could give you a run for your money," he chuckled, glancing at Kanna's chest as she pushed his head down against the desk with one hand. Kanna went 'tsk', and Bishop stifled his laughter.

"For the record, these things aren't as much fun as they look," she informed him matter-of-factly. "Even if you're as tall as I am."

"Thank you, Flight Officer Kaneshiro, ma'am."

Though they witnessed it at a twelve minute delay, and at a rather inconvenient angle for any topic besides her chest, they could barely confirm that Walker was having a conversation with his contact, or what passed as a conversation with the elusive Maya Barton.

A well-dressed waitress came up, a trumped-up smile on her face. "Hi! Can I take your order?"

Walker turned very slowly, even eerily so, to face her. "Black tea, please."

The waitress looked a little taken back. "Yes…sir. And you, miss?"

Maya whispered her order, not looking at the waitress. "Ice cappuccino with chocolate."

"And take your time," Walker added before turning slowly back to Maya. "You don't think you're a little old for to be drinking that?"

There was a very brief crack in Maya's expressionless face, and her hand twitched over her mobile.

**I'm older than a certain military kid I know.**

"I'm not communicating with you like this," Walker announced, sliding his mobile across the table. "But given what I know, how about I talk, and you listen?"

Maya stared at his mobile and then carefully put her own away.

"I really have just one question for you at this point. I'm not going to ask you how you knew about Duo Maxwell, or why you shared this information with OZ, or even what you hope to gain from all of this. I have just one different question."

Walker glanced over at the glasses, took one more look around, and folded them in his hand before glancing around and, when he thought no one was looking, tossing them overhand into the nearest rubbish bin.

"What happened to Captain Andrew Schmidt?"

Maya stared back at him, silent.

"Captain Schmidt, if you remember, was the commander of an Alliance Pioneer unit who fled to D-1307, where I had the privilege of meeting you in person, in case you've forgotten." He reached into a pocket, causing Maya to tense up briefly, but only produced a business card. "You learned about him from me, and I learned about him from Tycho Nichol, an officer I work with attached to the ambassador's office. When I asked him about it again, this was all he could give me."

He carefully held the business card so that she could see it.

"Barton Security Services, a wholly-owned subsidiary of the Barton Foundation. That's where Schmidt is, isn't he?" He put the business card away carefully, as though it were precious evidence. "Is that who you work for?

As if by impulse, Maya thumbed out a response on her mobile under the table, only to rigidly pause. "That's…more than one question." A long pause. "Much more."

"Well, you didn't answer my question, did you?"

She stared at him over those narrow glasses of hers and then spoke again. These gaps between her statements were nearly painful. "Give and take." There was something about how she said this that, to Walker, it sounded like a confirmation.

"It seems to have worked so far." He put his hands together, trying to keep his frustration under control. "And in return for your _hospitality_, I'll give this to you."

He leaned across the table, beckoning her to do the same, then whispered. "You know that televised live fire exercise outside _Barge_? We didn't reveal the names, but I think you'd like to know one. The highest scoring pilot." He paused, unintentionally adding to the drama. "Trowa Barton."

The unexpressive Maya's eyes widened for a brief second, a flicker of surprise. Walker had a feeling he'd finally done something right. "I bet that name means something."

Another long pause. Walker stared at Maya, realizing how hard it was to negotiate with someone who seemed so committed against talking. He made his decision to leave, not for the right reasons, but an effective one nonetheless.

"I'll expect something in return…" he said as he stood.

"I have it," she told him very quietly.

He fell back to his chair too anxiously but he didn't mind. "Have what?"

She looked up at him and her expression changed, however briefly, to something he recognized immediately: she knew something that he wanted to know.

"OZ is going to attack D-120…eventually…right?"

"I think so."

"What are they waiting for?"

"I couldn't answer that even if I wanted to."

She reached into the hidden pocket on her skirt where she'd stored her mobile and produced a folded piece of paper, which she carefully unfolded partway and smoothed over the café table. From the top left quadrant, he could see it was a copy of a military blueprint, with an insignia visible in the corner. In it was a dark blue eagle silhouette, rising from an elaborate flourish. Just past it were the words 'Property of the Barton Foundation'. It wasn't a military blueprint, but an approximate reproduction of one.

"If this is what I think it is, I should try to detain you right now," he said, staring at it intently. "But I'll leave that to better men and women in the Military Commissariat."

"I think this might be what OZ is waiting for." She turned the blueprint so that he could see part of a simplistic schematic.

_This is definitely not a manufacturer's print, but an intelligence-gathering composition. _He glanced over to the heading:

**FOR INTERNAL REVIEW ONLY: FUTURE OZ MILITARY MOBILE SUIT – OZ-17MS**

_OZ-17MS. General purpose mobile suit. This must be Object Something-17_, he said, trying to keep his eyes from bugging out of his head too much. _If she has this, they must have chosen an initial assembly line. First M.A.D. is hiding the project leaders, now they're hiding the factories._

He clenched his fist: it was finally dawning on him just how much this deception—even within the command structure—infuriated him. He knew his Art of War; secrecy was one thing. Now he felt like he was living out those books Eva Cebotari had instructed he read in the Heero Yuy Memorial Library…

"Walker," she said quietly, getting his attention.

He thoughts returned. "So, you work for the head of the foundation, that mogul…" He paused again, searching those passages. "Dekim…Barton?"

She didn't respond, but he continued. "He was part of Heero Yuy's inner circle, wasn't he?" He gave her a look that Maya found equal parts grave and hawk-like and led her to lean away slightly. "A man like that, in possession of considerable resources and manpower, could threaten Earth. And OZ, drowning in these colonies, could fail to see it coming."

"You're really worried about this," she said finally.

Walker didn't even notice the waitress quietly delivering Maya's iced drink and his simple cup of tea and just heaved a deep sigh. "Five mobile suits sent by five old men changed sixty years of world history," he said. "Whatever these machines are for and wherever they are, I don't think a man like him isn't dangerous enough even without our military weapons."

**VI**

Around the massive, classically-inspired Presidential Palace in New Jerusalem, the Bodyguard Battalion of the Republican Guard made their usual rounds, only temporarily bothered by the presence of a number of army jeeps, mobile radar vehicles, and an MIM-70 'Archangel' surface-to-air missile system arranged across the palace greens. Like the rest of Utah's premiere military division, the battalion's soldiers wore the olive-drab uniforms of the defunct UESA Army, with gold aiguillettes and polished badges. A class of Utahan schoolchildren, in their brightly colored summer clothes, took photographs of them through the sandbag barricades.

Inside the palace, the atmosphere was gloomier. The Utahan first president—a title, not the first leader to hold the office—sat with his cabinet as the defense minister briefed him on the country's dire situation. The central table was littered with empty containers of so-called 'Chinese' food.

"With the fall of Fort Destiny and Brigham City becoming a frontline city, our remaining fuel supply lines are effectively cut. In approximately forty hours, the entirety of the Utahan Air Army will be grounded. Our ground forces can, however, count on their own fuel reserves, but that's not a long term solution."

The screen behind the defense minister changed to a map of the republic, with a creeping area of red descending upon the blue center.

"Based on estimated data of OZ's airborne battalions and army divisions, we've created a simulation for the next twenty days following a renewed assault by Luxembourg, assuming the army, air force and Republican Guard's current standing. Day one…"

The borders between red and blue zones began to shift, outward a little, before lurching inwards.

"Day five." By then, Brigham Young was enveloped completely in red, as was Provo and the southernmost part of Salt Lake City.

"Day fifteen." Salt Lake City was entirely red, and among pockets of blue resistance, the red zones reached into New Jerusalem, built on reclaimed land of the shrinking Great Salt Lake.

"In two weeks, what's left of army will be fighting OZ at Joseph Smith Prospect. In three weeks, what's left of the Republican Guard will be fighting them outside that window," he said, pointing at exorbitant purple drapes over the bay windows.

"That's…it, Grumman?" First President Willard Pratt asked, the lights coming back on and the drapes pulling back. He was a tall, handsome Utahan, with perfectly combined brown hair with a streak of grey in that helped cover for otherwise disappointing absence of personality for a fifty-five year old man. "The Alliance abandons us to fight OZ, and we can't even fight for a whole month?"

"In…simplistic terms, that's the case."

Pratt opened his mouth, then slumped in his chair, putting a hand to his forehead. Nearby, his foreign minister muttered something under his mustache.

"Excuse me?"

"I was saying there must be _something _we've overlooked. Something, somewhere. For goodness sake, this was the Continental American Military District! We are a _nuclear power!_"

"Foreign Minister, unless your plan is to explode those nuclear weapons and make the Little Sahara that much bigger, those aren't really viable weapons."

There was a smirk from the education minister nearby, who turned in her chair. "Don't bother, it'll grow on its own. Just because _we_ call climate science bogus doesn't make it untrue."

"No one cares, Trisha," Defense Minister Grumman muttered. "But yes, she's correct."

Pratt remained silent.

"This is something we've had to acknowledge since those six divisions vanished off the maps earlier this month," he reminded everyone. "We can thank Gwinter Septim for that."

"Help me here: what exactly does Septim want with two mobile suit divisions and three armored divisions?" the director of the Utahan CIA asked. The report he held in his hand suggested that the two divisions' 480 mobile suits had been reduced to around 35% strength when their headquarters cut their lines of communication. Shortly after learning of this, OZ's representative, Dorothy Catalonia, refused to continue negotiations and its military ended the truce with a resumed aerial campaign.

"I imagine he's planning to defend the actual territory of his 'Republic of Noventa'."

"He's doomed us all."

"Mr. President, I feel we must serious consider approaching Luxembourg, however we can, and taking whatever terms they're willing to give," the Utahan Attorney General announced.

"What about Victory Mountain?" the Foreign Minister interrupted. The room went silent and Pratt lowered his head.

"What is he talking about?"

"The Bio-warfare Laboratories at the Victory Mountain Complex," Grumman explained. "Though I was led to believe those anti-personnel weapons weren't viable, that the Alliance shuttered the labs."

"Well, yes and no," the head of the CIA added quietly.

"It's one or the other," Pratt muttered.

He nodded. "Yes, the Alliance shuttered the lab, shuttered meaning 'ceased development and transferred the workers'. No in that some of the weaponized pathogens probably are viable."

"According to whom?" the Defense Minister asked.

He checked his papers, then leaned towards an uniform-wearing advisor who whispered in his ear. "Apparently, some products of Victory Mountain were slated for use against a gangster-controlled colony in in L5, Colony A-0206. They weren't used, but General of Space Forces Septim fully believed they would have been effective."

"That's…not the same Septim who fucked us over?" Pratt asked.

"Language, sir!" an aide announced.

"No, Mr. President, that would be Space Forces General Septim's son."

"Thank you."

"I would have liked to have known this myself, actually," the Defense Minister muttered, sounding annoyed.

"I apologize, General, I didn't think it was a worthwhile avenue."

"All avenues should have been considered," he retorted harshly.

"I agree with the general," Pratt muttered. "Returning to the topic, though, those…how many?"

An aid whispered in Pratt's ear. "Those hundred-sixty-odd mobile suits. Assuming OZ hasn't destroyed all of them, how exactly would Septim get them back?"

"Well, OZ controls all space forces near Earth and is rapidly tightening the noose around any area those divisions might have occupied. So, short of an intervention by almighty _Elohim_…magic?"

"Minovsky particles?" the Education Minister offered.

"The Force?" the Foreign Minister added.

A dark chuckle crossed the room.

The Utahan cabinet was not aware that, as they grimly discussed their lack of options, two-thirds of the way to Luna, on the outer edges of the second Lagrange Point, a UESA Space Forces commander discussed nearly the exact same happenings from the comfort and safety of her flagship: a _Europa-_class mobile suit carrier _Africana_, CVA-40, the only one of the three ships of its class currently operational.

The _Africana_, at over 600 meters long, dwarfed even the massive _Ganymede_-class cruisers, and was a dedicated mobile suit carrier that featured a single, massive cannon that ran almost the entirety of its keel, five anti-mobile suit defensive turrets, and four fixed capital ship cannons, two on either side. It also featured a large bridge room that could also serve as an impromptu conference area.

In front of a large Alliance flag, Counter Admiral Helena Arroway, daughter of the deceased Vice Admiral Arroway, sat on her permanent seat on the bridge, practically a throne over the added red carpet and other decor. Even as she sat slumped back she was clearly a tall woman, taller with the heels of her uniform boots, with long, straight black hair and a face that vaguely resembled her famed mother. Over her black UESA Space Forces naval uniform, she wore an old-fashion cloak that was more fitting on an army officer.

"We're still in intermittent contact with the two mobile suit divisions that have managed to break away from the Utahan military," a junior officer explained. "As of zero-five-hundred, our time, their headquarters confirmed to still possess one hundred and fifty eight operational or near-operational mobile suits. We believe that they're in possession of as many as twenty-five working H.L.V. located mostly in the North Salt Lake Cosmodrome, provided OZ doesn't secure the area first."

She cocked her head and smiled. "And what are they waiting for?"

"A safe window of opportunity, ma'am." The image change on the monitor he was gesturing at, to a spherical model of Earth. "In May, an attempt was made to rescue three divisions of the Peruvian Military District, which ended failure: only thirty mobile suits were recovered and the _Europa _was lost," he explained, referring to the carrier and not the cruiser in OZ service.

The loss of CVA-35, and most of its mobile suits, was not something the Alliance Space Forces could afford to repeat.

"Simply ensuring _Barge _is in the far part of its orbit is insufficient, and OZ's naval presence has only increased since then, Commander."

A visiting captain, CO of _Ganymede_, BC-68, made his distaste known on his face.

"Something to share, Captain?"

"Ma'am, I really do think you should reconsider any potential operation like this," he said plainly. He immediately regretted it. "But-…which is not to say, I completely understand that you have full military authority here, both as fleet commander and as defense minister…"

She smiled as the captain backpedaled nervously, even waving his hands in front of him. The so-called Arroway Fleet—the _Europa_, multiple _Ganymede- _and _Titan-_class cruisers, a number of smaller carriers and dozens of picket ships—made up the bulk of the Alliance Space Navy. And with the new government, Helena Arroway enjoyed even more power…

"Ma'am?" the _Ganymede_'s captain asked, carefully getting her attention.

"Your concerns have been noted, Captain. And what of that?" she asked, pointing to part of the screen with her folded paper-and-wood fan, another anachronism she kept on hand.

Another officer spoke. "OZ's first fleet, posted in high orbit. Any rescue operation will need to account for its presence, or ideally, be launched when the fleet is diverted elsewhere."

Arroway's XO, a short, burly man in a worn-out uniform, spoke. "We have something in mind for that. What we're more concerned about is the frontline in Utah consuming our reinforcements, the same way OZ did in Haiti."

To the left of Arroway's 'throne', the door to the bridge slid open and a junior officer rigidly marching up to Arroway, note in hand. She saluted, then presented the note to Arroway, who unfolded and read it.

"Gentlemen, you're dismissed," she said, not taking her eyes off the note. As they turned to leave, she raised her fan and pointed to the _Ganymede_'s CO. "Except _you_."

The captain visibly gulped and turned around slowly.

"Captain Soletta is the commander of your mobile detachment isn't she?"

"She's the only pilot in his mobile detachment," her XO muttered snidely.

"That's correct, commander."

"You'll transfer her to the _Africana _with the arrival of the two replacement squadrons that you lost to OZ's First Recon."

"Yes ma'am."

"Don't look so grim, Captain, you still have your ship."

**VII**

By late afternoon, when Walker had taken his leave from Maya, he still had a few hours to spend at L3-X-18999. The conversation, while interesting, was very limited and scope and didn't completely justify his trip. Thankfully, there was still one more lead he could look at before ending his amateur investigation.

In the middle of the industrial ward, between 140th and 151st Streets, was a major factory complex that ran the entire height of the Torus, from wall to wall, and was bypassed by a number of elevated freeways and maglev lines. The entire sector was cordoned off, surrounded by an industrial park one block deep and an unmistakably military-looking security fence over it, the sort Walker had seen at a weapons depot or a supply cache.

If there were any doubts left from that, around the handful of linked, concrete sarcophagi that made up the complex, were a number of discreetly-patrolling canine security teams, of a dog and a handler in hunter green fatigues and a cap.

_Never seen those uniforms before_. Walker still didn't know exactly what he was dealing with, so that left him with only one option: he went right up to the main entrance, in his suit and tie, and stopped at the security checkpoint. A woman sitting at the guard box in front of the gate lowered the newspaper she was reading and stared at him like he was a local: apparently, his disguise worked on someone.

"Can I help you?"

He reached into his pocket, took out his ID book, and held it open at her. "I'm Flight Lieutenant Walker, Seventh Division, Space Mobile Suit Troops. I have high-level security clearance from the commander-in-chief of Space Forces and I want to see the inside of the facility."

The woman stared at him under the rim of her soft kepi cap, then took his ID and reached for the telephone at her station.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_Military ranks, particularly in Latin-derived languages, are kind of complicated. The army ranks of first lieutenant, captain, major and lieutenant colonel, for example, have entirely different naval ranks: lieutenant, lieutenant commander, commander, and captain. So on a ship carrying mobile suits, the ranking pilot _and _the vessel's CO are both captains, but one is two ranks up the ladder—like Soletta and her boss. Arroway comes in just over that, at the rank of Counter Admiral, a reflection that the Space Navy is still subordinate to the Space Forces overall (who use army ranks). You can add that to the complexity of OZ's unique Mobile Suit Troops ranks (inspired by the RAF). _

_We have some new ship codes—'BC' remains 'battlecruiser, carrier', as before, with 'CVA' being uncreatively 'carrier vessel, armed' to distinguish it from dedicated mobile suit carriers that _aren't _armed. _

_By AC 195, Utah is a bit warmer than it is today, and the Little Sahara Recreation Area is now the Little Sahara State Recreational Desert (not to be confused with the same-named area in Oklahoma)—though probably not as big as it's actually going to be in +300 years in our world for certain climatological reasons. 'Elohim' is the word for 'god' (or 'gods' as it might be) from ancient Hebrew. Coincidentally, it is also used by the present day Church of Latter-day Saints, if I'm not mistaken. 'First President' is just something I chose because it sounds catchy, like a version of 'First Secretary'. I think the Utahan Republic is a Presidential republic, and as such, does not have a prime minister (Pratt is both head of government and state). Guess who inspired him!_

_The building Walker takes a cell phone pic of is the very same building Relena is held in during _Endless Waltz. _L3-X-18999_ _is an interesting place—it's not the Foundation's home base (I think they'd be less inclined to gamble it as such rather than some other colony they control), but it's obviously a major point of their power. _


	34. War in the Pocket

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 34 – War in the Pocket **

For Captain Andropov, this was a treat: an unexpected one, but a treat nonetheless. Even since his transfer to Space Forces in May, he felt he'd been forgotten in his position in the OZ Space Forces Engineer Corps, at the distant third Lagrange Point.

Adjusting the hem on his uniform, he strolled through the newly-completed and mostly unfurnished hallways of the very new complex, a straight shot to the reception area. Sure enough, flanked by two disguised military policemen, was Oswald Walker, recognizable by the service photograph. He was submitting to simultaneous retinal, fingerprint and biometric scan. On one of the computer screens at the checkpoint, the pistol he was concealing under his clothing was highlighted.

Andropov beamed proudly at him as the MPs cleared him. "Flight Lieutenant Walker, sir, welcome! V. V. Andropov, at your service!" he said enthusiastically, as Walker stuck his hand out and he happily shook it.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Walker said, a little surprised by his eagerness.

"And this is the Number Fourteen Mobile Suit Factory at L3-X-18999," he told him, all grins. "I'm very happy to be able to use this line a second time."

"When was the first time, may I ask?" He paused. "Or is that classified as well?"

"Given you clearance, I think it's fine if I told you. It was when His Excellency Treize Khushrenada visited, before the factory was finished," he said. "It was a while ago."

At the end of the reception area was a row of white construction hardhats—quite different from combat helmets, and buffed to a shine—with dark green bars of bold text on them. Walker picked up one and read the side. "Number Fourteen, L3-X-18999 Mobile Suit Works."

"The locals haven't named the colony yet. And I'm afraid I can't let you keep it as a souvenir," he joked cheerfully as he replaced his field cap with his helmet. Walker did the same and both men took a minute to tighten the straps. An MP pinned a security badge to his suit and they continued on.

Walker followed the happy Andropov through the hallway and through another security door.

"Would you mind if I asked what brings you to our little corner of the Outer Space?"

"I'm under orders from Lady Une to do a general inspection of current mobile suit development. I used to work at the Corsica Factory."

"Really? I was at Ruhr Valley before my reassignment."

"I've been there recently, exciting place."

"Not exactly how I'd describe it," Andropov admitted as they reached their floor. "And here we are."

Walker followed Andropov through the door and found himself on a gantry overlooking a nearly kilometer-long assembly hall, its floor five stories beneath him. On it were two assembly lines, each paired with a series of appropriate fabrication equipment: multiple cranes, hydraulic lifts, bracing equipment and hubs for plasma torches, along with a whole array of hand-use machining tools. Above them, on the hall ceiling, more cranes running on lines were visible. Walker recognized the role each part played in the assembly of a mobile suit._ The chassis are towed forward, with parts brought from other wings, transporting by cranes and hanging from the ceiling for final assembly_, he thought, glancing at the pathways just under the ceiling. _Typical OZ minimum-profile manufacturing layout_.

"I can tell from your look that none of this is new to you, and to be fair, it shouldn't be," Andropov admitted. "Object 1417 will be a general purpose model, the first third generation mobile suit. It was also supposed to be manufactured no earlier than A.C. 200, but with Leo inventories being swallowed up by the colonies, the General Staff decided to move things up. "

He sighed. "Though to be honest, the choice of this colony still strikes me as odd."

"I don't suppose the Barton Foundation won the contract for lowest bidder," Walker offered as the other man tensed up.

"Don't talk to me about the Barton Foundation, Flight Lieutenant," Andropov groaned, leaning over the railing and looking away momentarily. He quickly turned back, his face lit up once more. "Would you like to see the prototype?"

Off the assembly hall a single mobile suit stood upright in its own secure chamber. Walker and Andropov entered via a security door next to the actual hangar door. Andropov was very pleased with what he was going to show.

"And here it is: the OZ-17MS."

Walker stepped in the chamber as Andropov flipped a bank of switches, bathing everything in in light. In front of him was a mobile suit, just over sixteen-and-a-half meters tall with blocky limbs, painted in Alliance prototype white. Its cranium was triangular, with the usual monoeye camera. Walker's careful eye could tell that behind squared-off low profile armor plates were Leo-style shoulder ball-joints and the torso featured thick, sloped armor.

"Does it have a zodiac sign?"

"From what I understand, they want to go with 'Serpent'," Andropov said. "It's something, isn't it?"

"Do you have any projected weapons?"

"Whatever conventional arms we receive: ninety-millimeter chain rifle, beam rifle, dober gun, missile launcher. Hand-to-hand weapons would be two beam sabers in a shoulder-mounted shield."

"Like the Leo's?"

"Not exactly. It was a taller shield, vertically expandable, same anti-beam coating though," he said, looking through one of the notebooks he was holding before handing it to Walker. Walker took it and instead glanced at the two MPs guarding the door.

"And what about security?"

"I don't expect you saw them, but we've got one squadron from First Division's Combat Engineers Battalion and two Taurus squadrons from the Second Division."

"Housed here?"

"No, in an exterior garrison on the bracing arm, though we do our own maintenance here."

"And internal security?"

Andropov frowned again. "We take every precaution that we can but it'll never be perfect. You can't really operate a mobile suit factory in total secrecy, no matter what you do."

The two departed from the chamber housing the prototype and entered a connection hall. By them were tracks intended for moving palettes of titanium alloy to forging and wielding areas.

"We minimize area patrols, but inside the colony, there's no helping the situation. We do all our resource delivery and offloading at zero-two-hundred-hours on a randomized weekly schedule, but people know we're building something here. Our cover is military shipbuilding, but…"

The two looked over the manufacturing floor. "You're probably right. You could build one or two, but not a hundred. Not in secret, not with communications restored between the colonies."

He nodded. "And it's just as well, isn't it, sir?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, think about it sir—it may be a secret now, but when the first division of Serpents is airdropped into Haiti or Utah or wherever the Alliance is still fighting, it won't be a secret, will it?"

A junior officer came running down the hallway, stopping and saluting in front of Andropov. "Sir, we have a _small_ issue."

"What issue?"

The officer looked anxiously at Walker, then leaned towards Andropov and whispered at him.

Back at the same reception area Walker had entered through, a detail of disguised MPs formed a cordon around a man in an expensive-looking grey suit. Getting a closer look, Walker could see he was bald with a nearly-white mustache, tall in stature, and while he looked to be sixty or more, he was likely a decade younger—the toll taken by a difficult life living under Alliance martial law in the space colonies.

Andropov noticed his staring. "This is a sort of ritual for us, the price for operating in L3. But you're lucky, it's usually not the bigwig himself who comes."

"Who is that?"

Andropov looked surprised that he didn't recognize him. "You must have heard of him: Dekim Barton."

Walker did a double-take before getting control of himself again. "That's Dekim Barton?"

Andropov gave him another one of those unseemly but happy looks. "The mogul himself. He usually sends one of his employees, particularly this pretty _devushka _in expensive clothes, but he comes in person on occasion." He undid his helmet and set it aside. "This'll be _excellent _for your report, Flight Lieutenant."

He straightened his uniform tailcoat and white gloves before approaching the elder Barton, pushing aside one of the MPs. "Good evening, Your Honor, how may I help you?"

Barton gave Walker one glance across the reception area that sent a chill down his spine, before putting a hand on Andropov's back and directing him away, out of earshot. Walker took the time to remove his helmet and wait patiently, until a MP escorted him to the checkpoint and they ran a scanner over him quickly.

Walker didn't see Andropov anywhere. He imagined this was the end of his short tour, and asked a MP.

"You're free to go sir," the MP told him. She glanced over her shoulder, pulled the brim of her cap down, and gestured at him to come closer. "I'd stay away from any Barton types, do you understand, sir?"

Walker didn't, but he nodded anyway and left the building. He found himself standing on the short-cut grounds in front of the complex's entrance. Night had fallen and looking up, he could see the inner torus wall lit up to simulate starlight behind a layer of clouds. It was time to go back to the spaceport and sleep in the terminal until his next flight.

"What's your name, soldier?"

Walker almost jumped out of the loafers CAST had lent him to wear. Turning, he saw Dekim Barton standing behind him, his angular jawline jutting out like a refutation of decades of Alliance rule. He was standing between Walker and the sidewalk.

"I'm sorry, sir, can I help you?"

"Oh, a polite one, that's…very nice," Barton said, a smirk appearing on his face. Walker would learn to associate Dekim Barton with smirking. "You're on your way to the terminal, aren't you, Flight Lieutenant Walker?"

Walker barely controlled his reaction, again. "What gave you that impression?"

"How many young men your age do you think there are running around this colony dressed as insurance adjusters?" Barton countered as his limousine drove up the street behind him, its lights blinding Walker partially.

Walker took a look at Barton, then at the car, trying to make out how many likely-armed people were in it. Between the dim streetlights and the tinted windows that was impossible. _In everything that's happened, have I forgotten the most basic fact: without my mobile suit, I'm just a nineteen-year-old with an unusual wardrobe and education. _"I'm not getting in there."

"I'd be a very good friend to have, soldier. Maybe you should think this through," he told him calmly.

Walker paused in as deliberate a manner as he could. "I'm still not getting into that car. Good night, Your Honor."

Barton chuckled under his mustache and looked past him, at the factory. "Loyal to a fault, aren't you? Like so many in OZ, content to sit in their concrete sarcophagus, so far from Earth." He approached Walker and put a weathered, muscular hand on his left shoulder. Walker barely suppressed a nervous shudder. "Why is that?"

He did his best to match his glance. "Unlike you, sir, I'm part of something much greater than I will ever be," Walker told him, not missing a beat. It didn't occur to him he might be a little overzealous in his response. "I'm not sure if that's something you'd understand, Your Honor."

He took a moment to respond. "I do, actually. Not so long ago, I felt the same way." Dekim gave him a knowingly look before pulling his hand back, turning around and walking straight to his limousine. "Learn something now rather than later, young man: don't look too closely at your heroes and expect to keep them. Solzhenitsyn was skilled writer, a brilliant scholar and a courageous dissident."

The door opened, revealing a large man in sunglasses with a dark suit not unlike Walker had seen before when he first arrived at the terminal. Barton climbed into the open seat.

"He was also a devout anti-Semite, fanatical monarchist and an apologist for authoritarian rule. And he never thought felt those were contradictions."

Making an effort, he craned his head just in time to give Walker a self-satisfied smirk as the car doors closed. "So who's your Solzhenitsyn, soldier?"

**II**

"Ms. Kaneshiro? Ms. Kaneshiro, are you awake?"

That wasn't actually a question, as it was plainly evident that Flight Officer Kaneshiro Kanna was asleep in the examination table, her left leg falling over the side. After Walker had discarded the microcamera he'd brought with him to L3-X-18999, there wasn't much to do besides wait around in shifts on the off chance that the video came back.

At the strangest of times, Kanna recalled she'd been putting something off: OZ, like the Alliance, ordered all women in the armed forces visit a gynecological specialist annually. Like every woman in the Mobile Suit Troops, Kanna suspected, she put it off.

"I missed a section of the preliminary questions," the voice repeated; it belonged the most senior of the small cadre of OB/GYN doctors permanently posted on Space Fortress _Barge_, Dr. Doric. Kanna knew that the doctor had a sister in the Space Forces somewhere, but that was it. She wasn't that much older than her, but had been a physician in Outer Space for several years now. "I must be losing my edge," she lamented.

Kanna yawned and laughed at the comment. "I don't think you have to worry, _sensei_."

"That's easy for you to say, all you do is fly around outside and blow things up," she muttered. Around thirty years old, all Kanna knew about her background was from the family portrait she kept just over her desk with her Mediterranean father and East Asian mother. She dyed her black hair blond and wore dark lipstick, wearing OZ hunter greens underneath a white lab coat while flipping the page on her chart.

"Do you smoke?"

"No."

"Any recreational drugs? Seeing where we are, I'll go ahead and mark that as 'no'."

Kanna nodded.

"Do you drink alcohol?"

"Pretty seldom," she admitted. "Once a month, maybe."

"Do you have any children?"

Kanna raised an eyebrow. She was fairly certain Doric had her medical history and knew this for herself anyway. "No."

"Sorry, I'm supposed to ask," she apologized. "By the way, your implant should last for another eighteen months."

"I'll be sure to write that down," Kanna said, rolling her eyes. "Sorry for falling asleep, by the way."

Doric smiled. "Thank you for staying awake during the actual exam, not that you had a choice," she muttered. "I keep asking for a secretary to do the processing work so I don't have to make patients wait after I finish, but they keep turning me down."

"That's too bad."

"You're not the only one. Flight Lieutenant Ogasawara fell asleep after I left too."

Kanna blinked. "Sensei, I think I know why some people call you a gossip."

Doric chuckled again, before tearing a sheet from the chart, setting it aside, and holding the chart in front of Kanna. "Sign here, please."

She obediently sighed with the attached pen: _Kaneshiro Kanna, ORF_. The Most Excellent Order of the Romefeller Foundation, to which she owed her low rank of peerage.

"Really, I think it's a symptom of a greater problem," Doric added.

Kanna stretched out in the medical gown she was still wearing. "What would that be, sensei?"

"They're overworking all of you."

"See, this is why you doctors get the big bucks."

Doric chuckled again. "Sometimes the answer is that simple. But if you _were _worried, don't be: you have the reproductive health of a model twenty-year-old woman," she said, looking through the chart, then tearing off another sheet. "Your copy."

"Great. So much for worrying about all cosmic radiation I heard so much of when I was a kid."

"Well, the radiation is there, but there hasn't been any appreciable effect on you. You've probably been exposed to more radiation sitting with your back to a fusion reactor. Or worse, using your mobile on a daily basis."

Kanna rolled her eyes again. "I see."

"Don't worry, I think I've heard the same concern from every patient. As children, we all heard about the Colonial sterility epidemic in our grade school history classes, but that was almost two centuries ago. The only people still effected by that would have to actively be trying to hold onto the recessive genes that are the most likely culprits."

"Huh?" Kanna asked turning.

Doric looked at her. "Recessive genes, fought to be mutations trigger by cosmic radiation in the earliest days of the space colonies combined with irregular gravity and diet."

"Uh, sensei, assume for a second I don't know anything about genetics."

Doric sighed and opened a cabinet, taking out a brightly colored model of a double-helix DNA strand, and setting it in front of a diagram of the female reproductive system. "Among the _very first_ generation of Colonials, there were a lot of problems with live childbirth, which required very expensive gestation cylinders to overcome in some cases. Really, it was the unexpected golden age of E.U.F.I.—extrauterine fetal incubation. But having tens of millions of parental couples reliant on specialized clinical technology had some obvious economic problems, besides denying people the right to procreation independent of the health industry, so even a minority of cases wasn't really acceptable. Eugenics, diet changes, and new shielding addressed the problem by the third generation. Later immigrants never encountered the problem at all."

"And?"

Doric paused, pushing on the model with her finger until a plastic part representing a strand of nucleotides popped off and fell to the floor. "And the only people still affected by it were people who made a point to avoid those solutions. The 'first families' of the colonies who suffered from the condition, but kept marrying among their extended family for reasons of birthright or property concerns. Apparently the most famous cases are in the fourth Lagrange Point, and the oldest families there."

"L4? Where the civil war is happening?"

"An unrelated occurrence, I imagine."

Kanna thought about it. "Have you ever run into a case of it?"

"No, and I've been in Outer Space for four years now." Doric paused while reaching down to pick up the plastic part. "My goodness, maybe I am a gossip."

Back in their barracks, Flight Officer Mazuri and Pilot Officer Bishop sat in two of the three chairs around the folding table. In the center of the table was a notebook computer, its screen dominated by a video window consumed in black with the words 'Signal Lost' in the middle. Mazuri and Dac kept sleeping even as the door opened and Kanna walked in, tank top on and her tunic hanging over her shoulder, sitting in the third chair.

"Any change?" she asked. The two kept sleeping until Kanna shook Dac's shoulder.

"No, no change!" he said immediately, sitting upright and fixing his collar. "Where'd you go off to?"

"Doctor's appointment," she said, stretching her legs.

"Oh," he muttered.

"You know, I think we can go ahead and call this a 'dead end'," Mazuri explained, not opening his eyes but pointing a finger at the notebook. "We'll have to wait until he returns."

"And then do what? Debrief him?" Dac glanced at Kanna, who shrugged helplessly.

**III**

Even as sporadic fighting continued at the fourth Lagrange Point, Wincomfleet—the commercial shipping and mining fleet owned by the prodigious Winner Corporation—continued its normal operations as it had for more a century. Not only unrivaled in Outer Space, the Winner Corporation was a gigantic entity that hearkened back to the corporatist period, when publicly- and privately-owned commercial entities had grown to the power of medium-sized nations and were accepted as a necessary fact of industrialized life. With the fall of capitalism, those entities ceased to exist on Earth, consumed by war, nationalized or forced to transform into non-profit foundations. But in Outer Space, still considered the lawless frontier by many, a few enterprises survived and even flourished.

After Colony 195. The Winner Corporation, stretched across the Lagrange Point, remains the largest economy in Outer Space. It is however challenged by the newly-founded Republic of Noventa at the first Lagrange Point. In the past, as a matter of doing business, the Winner Corporation begrudgingly accepted Alliance military rule and even fostered a profitable relationship with the local Alliance Space Forces. Winnner authority meant some liberty from the military administration, but only on Winner terms. In the vacuum of power left behind when the Alliance evacuated, its power only increased. However, its unwavering commitment to demilitarization, along with its heavy-handed business practices, fostered plenty of competition, both corporate and in the now-autonomous colonies.

A Wincomfleet ship on the fringes of L4, MV _Regulus_, had spotted something out of the ordinary in its travels, and reported home.

"I know what it sounds like I just said, I'll repeat it! It's an Alliance mobile suit, heavily damaged. It's in an elliptical orbit, with its periapsis is in H.E.O. and its projected apoapsis is in the middle of L4. There's one life sign onboard, but it's weak. And for the last time, it's not a mistake!"

The skipper impatiently waited for a response, cursing both his immediate bad luck and his decision to go into the merchant marine. _I should have listened to my mother and become some swindling middle-management type. _

He got a response on his headset. "Fine, thank you!" He flipped a switch and spoke into the microphone again. "E.V.A. team, stand by for recovery operation. Helm, have a burn calculation for the soonest possible rendezvous ready for me by the time I get to the bridge."

"_Aye aye, sir!_" the extravehicular activities team responded.

The _Regulus _would have to both decrease its velocity considerably and change its heading, but it didn't expect any other obstacles to a rendezvous with the damage mobile suit. After a precisely calculated burn lasting just over a minute, the ship was rapidly closing in on the mobile suit. On the bridge, the _Regulus'_ skipper watched on monitors as the ship's E.V.A. detail exited an airlock, equipment in hand.

"Rendezvous course set, estimated closest approach one-hundred and eighty meters, estimated time to approach three-hundred seconds. Prepare for burn in ten."

The EVA crew, despite being tethered to the ship, braced themselves on handholds.

"Five…four…three…two…"

Less than a hundred meters away from the mobile suit, the _Regulus_ executed its second maneuver, a short seven-second burn, and its crew got a better look at what they were dealing with: an Alliance Pioneer mobile suit, an OZ-06SMS 'Space Leo', or what was left of it. Crippled was an understatement, the mobile suit was missing everything under the torso and its left arm, though its booster pack and cranium were surprisingly intact.

"_E.V.A. team deploying._" The team leader raised his industrial harpoon gun, aimed carefully, and fired a single shot at the mobile suit. The tungsten-tipped magnetized harpoon embedded itself in the Leo's thruster pack.

"Nice shot. Correcting course for Haram Area." Another short burn, this time dragging the mobile suit with them. Instead of passing through empty space in the middle of L4, it would now come within the regional space of L4's corporate center. "Go ahead and transfer when you're ready, then run a full sensor scan on that thing."

The EVA team was about to do that when a piercing alarm could be heard over both their headsets and the bridge.

"Sir, we've got a contact on long range radar, single bogey, on approach from one-eight-three, thirty degrees high. Checking emission spectrum…it looks like a Mushshak!"

"Damn it," the captain muttered, leaning to look over at the data display nearby. The MF-4B 'Mushshak' was a long-range training spacecraft that was often converted to short-range fighter-bomber married with a modified mothership. It was probably armed with a single beam cannon and a number of colonial-built missiles with HMX payloads. A single one could punch a hole a few meters wide in the side of the _Regulus_.

He wasn't going to wait to find out.

"E.V.A. return! Prepare to take evasive maneuvers!"

"_Sir, what about the mobile suit_?"

The captain punched keys on his own control panel. "Getting ready to discard it. I'm not dragging some Alliance junk with a Mushashak up my ass."

"Sir, it's definitely a fighter-bomber. Looks like a beam cannon and four missiles. Time before missile range, one-seventy."

"Full throttle, maintain heading," the captain ordered, tapping the switch that disconnected the harpoon. The Space Leo continued on its corrected course as the _Regulus _rapidly accelerated away, beam fire starting to streak by it. "Line cut. It's corporate's problem now."

The fighter, as the captain predicted, continued in its pursuit of the _Regulus_, and ignored the mobile suit, which appeared to it just to be another bit of salvage floating from near Earth. This particular bit of space junk, however, was floating to Haram—a colony married to a depleted resource satellite converted into an industrial center. In its nonfunctional cockpit was Quatre Raberba Winner.

**IV**

"What do we know about the new cabinet?"

"No more than we've heard from D-120's news networks." Standing in a secure strategy room on _Barge_, Lieutenant Colonel North crossed his arms, only to uncross them when Lieutenant Hopkins approached holding a tea tray. Next to him was Major Bremer, scratching his chin even as Hopkins set down his teacup. "Septim is president, promoting himself two ranks from brigadier to lieutenant general in the process. A Brigadier General Ventei is vice-president, the nephew of the late Pietro Ventei," North explained, referring to the last commander-in-chief of the Alliance Army.

"It must be nice to have shiny, polished names like those," Bremer muttered, eliciting a smirk from North.

"And of course, Helena Arroway has been promoted to Counter Admiral and is now defense minister," North said, tapping the large display screen they used rather than a Halo projection station. The display screen had the added convenience of functioning as a table: Arroway's pre-'Daybreak' service photograph, a handsome but hard-featured woman in her early thirties, expanded.

"What's her story?"

"According to Lady Soris, she was something of a crack special operations pilot for Space Troops out past Luna. Quite good with a Leo, considering she wasn't in OZ." North looked up. "No offense, Liam."

"None taken sir," Bremer said after sighing. Behind him, Hopkins carefully set the tea set down before taking a place behind near the display table.

"That's another shiny name, 'Arroway'," North muttered. "It wouldn't be if we'd taken Eleanor Arroway alive. I suppose can thank Lady Soris for that."

"_Gråt inte över spilld mjölk_," Bremer announced calmly, leading North and Hopkins to stare at him. "Don't cry over spilt milk."

"Of course." North tapped the screen again, shrinking Arroway's image and returning it to the line of others. "The Interior Minister and Foreign Minister are both civilians from the Alliance L1 bureaucracy," he said, tapping those two images.

"And that's it. Sedici's speaking to his contacts on Luna, but this is everything the Military Commissariat and the General Staff know," North explained. He took a sip of his tea and set the cup down, pursing his lips. "I think we are fucked."

Bremer looked up and blinked. "Pardon me, Colonel?"

"Oh, it's not that bad, I'm sure," North explained. "I mean, our intelligence situation for D-120, and maybe even Outer Space, is about as adequate as the Alliance's was going up to 'Daybreak' and 'Pleiades', and that went so well for them, didn't it?"

There was a beep from the room's intercom. "_Flight Lieutenant Walker's here, sirs_."

"Send him in," North and Bremer said, simultaneously, before looking at one another. The door slid open and Walker entered, wearing his service uniform, out-of-formation. He adjusted his white gloves and saluted.

"Flight Lieutenant Walker reporting, Colonel North."

"Walker, at ease. Welcome back, how was your visit to...L3-X-18999, was it?" North asked rhetorically. He could tell that Walker was at least a little surprised North had known where he'd gone, in secret, ostensibly.

"Very productive, sir," Walker replied, a little slowly. North raised a hand, cutting him off.

"I know, I know, orders. I'm just your commanding officer, Lady Une is commander-in-chief of Space Forces. Her orders take precedence over mine." He gestured at the display. "We're just discussing what passes as 'intelligence' for Noventa."

Walker nodded, glancing at the images on the display table. "Shouldn't this be shared with Lady Une?"

North chuckled again, silencing Walker. "You mean why she isn't here? Well, Ambassador Une is preoccupied, winning the diplomatic war in Outer Space. Six colonies have formally signed onto the N.E.P. since she announced it," he said, tapping another part of the display that highlighted the location of those colonies in Earth orbit.

A smile crept across his face. "Meanwhile, _Colonel _Une is preoccupied, playing games with her pet colonial pilots and her _bliznets_, which I hope to God will at least produce some practical military hardware for a change of pace. She hasn't done a damn thing regarding D-120."

Predictably enough, Walker said nothing in response. North turned back to Bremer, bringing up another screen on the display, this one of a space navy moving in formation. "At least the navy has escaped her grasp, for now."

"Will we need to commit the fleet to the situation in L4?" Bremer asked.

Hopkins coughed into his hand. "Actually, sir, Flight Officer Armonia proposed a diplomatic solution to the General Staff. But she does need two ranking officers as representatives."

"Representatives?" Bremer echoed.

"She doesn't feel the Winner Corporation or the L4 council will take her offer seriously because of her, um, age, sir."

"What will she think of next?" North muttered. "Check the off-duty rosters, there must be a pair of flight lieutenants we can spare."

**V**

The OZSS_ Calypso_, BC-101, had been in dry dock for little less than a month, while OZ Space Forces repaired and refitted it following the defeat and captured by OZ on 10 July. In addition to their excellent firepower and combat capabilities, both the _Ganymede_ and the _Titan_-class, like _Calypso_, were designed to be highly modular, and a refit that would have taken months was shortened down to weeks. The _Calypso _was now moving under its own power, with an entirely new conning tower, as it engaged in shortened trials before linking up with OZ's fleet in L1.

Three OZ-12SMS 'Taurus' mobile suits, from the First Recon Battalion, under their own power as well, descended upon the ex-Alliance cruiser, still in flight mode. They were rendezvousing for refueling and resupply.

"_So that's Eleanor Arroway's last command ship_," Indira Syed Khan observed. "_Is it really smaller than the _Ganymede_-class?_"

"_Yeah, by a whole hundred fifty meters,_" Carlos Motta responded. "_Carries half the mobile suits._"

"_Doesn't look like it. Can you believe Soris Armonia took one of those things on by herself?_" Indira asked incredulously. "_In a Leo_?"

In the cockpit of the lead Taurus, Flight Lieutenant Ogasawara Emi adjusted her oxygen hose. "_She had the help of her sister and Yuri Kuznetsov's fleet_," she reminded them. "Now stow the chatter and get on approach vector."

Other OZ Taurii pilots, officers of the Space Forces' 1st Division 3rd Company, watched the three mobile suits land and the hangar shutters close behind them. As the hangar atmosphere was restored, the Taurii switched back to mobile suit mode and carefully set themselves in the three remaining empty positions.

"So this is the legendary First Recon Battalion?" one pilot asked, removing his helmet.

A nearby mechanic sitting in a folding chair nodded, doing the same. "This is supposed to be their best flight too, led by Ogasawara. Rumor is she's the Asian Lady Soris."

The other just raised an eyebrow at him. "I'll believe that when I see it," he replied as the cockpit hatches opened and the pilots began to egress.

"Well, the captain seems to think so," he said, pointing. Sure enough, the _Calypso_'s new captain, an officer in the white summer uniform like those worn by OZ's terrestrial navy, was floating across the hangar to greet her.

Emi took off her helmet and shook her hair free; as expected, the captain was caught off guard by her appearance. "…Flight Lieutenant Ogasawara, welcome aboard the _Calypso_. It's an honor to have pilots from such a distinguished units aboard, even momentarily."

She shook his waiting hand. "Thank you, Captain. Hopefully it will be momentary. Can you tell me the status on our Taurus carrier?" she asked politely.

"It should be docking as we speak, Lieutenant."

Emi waited for him to leave before saying anything further. "At least he seems nice."

"Yeah, and I thought the _Calypso _was supposed to have a bad rep," Indira added.

"Don't rule it out just yet," Carlos muttered, gesturing across the hangar. On the opposite wall next to a cobalt blue Space Leo, a few pilots, in service uniforms, patiently waited for a combat engineer to disembark his machine and float to the floor—upon which one of the gave him a friendly smack on the back. Another one said something before giving him a rough shove, and while they couldn't make out the conversation, the recon pilots watched the treatment get progressively rougher.

"What are the odds that engineer's a Colonial?"

"I'm sure Nabiki would love to get in on that action," Indira told him. "A bet, not beating up that poor kid. Eh, Emichan?" she asked, glancing at Emi before stepping away. The F/L was rapidly stripping out of her normal suit.

"Oh boy. I should have known."

"Indira, you have until I get out of this suit to tell those First Division guys to stop that, or _I'll _stop them," she said quickly and angrily.

"Do you really have to start something?" Carlos muttered quietly enough to be ignored.

Indira nodded quickly and floated herself over, managing to land right in the middle the three Taurii pilots as they pushed the Leo pilot around further. "Hey boys, what am I missing?" she asked cheerfully, crossing her arms and covering the First Recon Battalion shoulder patches sewn into her normal suit with her hands.

"Nothing, just reminding this Colonial _punk-ass_ he's still on divisional probation," the lead pilot, another F/O, said as he gave the pilot a swift kick in the ribs with his boots. He had an inflection in his voice Indira fought odd. "Pilot Officer Rahman here _forgot_ apparently."

Indira forced a laugh while glancing quickly over a shoulder. "That so? Is he from First Division's Engineering Battalion?"

"Where else?" Another shove followed by a kick. Surprisingly, Rahman didn't seem to respond, biting down on his lip.

"Well, I hate to rain on your fun, but what you guys are doing _is _hazing," Indira pointedly out, keeping her friendly tone as she could hear Emi shoving her way over to them noisily, having discarded her normal suit.

The F/O laughed, throwing her a playful glance, before kicking Rahman in the back of the head away from him. "Oh, come on, _sugah'_ we gotta' teach him somehow. Right _y'all_?"

One of the other two, also a flight officer, smiled back. "When you're right, Nate, you're right," he replied, in a different accent. He kicked Rahman back to Nathan, who caught him.

"Because I'm a gentleman, and this pretty lady asked so nicely, how 'bout I let this one thing slide until your next lesson?" he asked Rahman, holding him close. What he didn't notice was that, in the time it took to do this, Emi had crossed the hangar, taken a metal folding chair from a mechanic while he was sitting in it, folded it closed, braced herself on the hangar floor, and brought it down with just enough force on the top of Nathan's head to actually break it.

Indira shrugged helplessly as Nathan cried out, releasing Rahman, who just floated off. "What is it that Americans say about this sort of situation? 'You can't fix stupid'?"

"What the hell was that about, you cu-…" Nathan snapped, holding the back of his head as he clamored back to his feet, and cutting himself off when he saw who had hit him. Emi wasn't wearing any rank insignia, just her tight black crop top and formfitting shorts. But the alarms her glare set off in his painful head were joined by the sight of Carlos floating over while holding Emi's violet normal suit in his hands, with its clearly visible Alliance-style metal rank insignia on the collar.

"Where the _fuck _do you think we are, Flight Officer?" Emi barked. "Do you think this is some sort of _game_? Do you think we're some frontier Alliance space patrol, where you can just beat the shit out of junior officers because it _amuses _you? Get on your feet when I speak to you, Officer!" she yelled.

Begrudgingly Nathan got up to his feet, glancing at his hand, now bloodied from a wound on his head.

"Well?" Emi asked.

"F-Flight Lieutenant, we…"

"No, see, there's your first goddamn mistake," Emi snapped back, cutting him off. "There is no 'we'. There's a folksy-sounding asshole beating the shit out of some helpless wingnut while his spineless coward comrades watch on," Emi said while shooting a glare at the other two pilots, who shrank back.

Sighing, Indira helped Rahman to his feet, who had a hand firmly planted over his left eye. "You all right, kid?" He just nodded.

"For Christ sakes, you are _Knights of the Order of the Zodiac. _Literally! Is this how the fuck you think civilized professional officers behave? Is it?"

Nathan opened his mouth a little too fast and shut it.

Emi turned, making sure she had the attention of the rest of the hangar. "You see, 'Nate', if you want to beat the shit out of one of your comrades, don't be some sniveling coward and try and find some sort of systemic _fratboy_ justification for it. You just do this!"

And with that, Emi spun around and struck the nearest of Nathan's comrades in the face with a very fast left jab, so hard it actually spent her spinning before she halted herself on a nearby machinery rack. Caught very unaware, the struck officer floated away as Emi grabbed a surprised Nathan again and yanked him at her.

"You ever want to beat someone, you call me, Flight Officer. Call me whatever you want, in fact. But don't expect some petty officer with their arms tied behind their back."

Nathan stared at Emi and nodded slightly, as Emi let him float off and lowered herself back to the floor.

"What's your name, kid?" she asked the pilot officer.

"Rahman," he muttered, before standing at attention and seeing Carlos pointing at the metal insignia. "I mean, Pilot Officer Rahman, Flight Lieutenant, ma'am."

"Mr. Rahman, you're going to file a disciplinary report with your commanding officer after you get that eye of yours checked out."

"I…thank you, ma'am, but after that, I don't think…"

"It's not for you, Mr. Rahman, it's for everyone else. Hazing is like cancer, ignoring it doesn't fix the problem. Maybe if we weren't in the middle of a war, we could let it slide," she informed him, before floating away.

Indira watched her leave, turned to Rahman and shrugged, before going after her.

"Who was that?" Rahman repeated.

"That's Flight Lieutenant Emi Ogasawara," a mechanic pointed out, picking up his broken chair. "Supposedly the best pilot in OZ's First Recon. Apparently, she's kind of a hard-ass."

**VI**

Flight Lieutenant Chernenko was actually pleased—his entire flight was pulled off armed recon in the border zone so that he alone could pull provisional diplomatic duty at L4. However, he didn't really know much about the fourth Lagrange Point in particular, and wondered if he was suited for the role.

"Isn't the something that Lady Une should be handling?" he asked the officer sitting next to him.

Flight Lieutenant Andretti, from the Lunar Military District, shrugged. "I've heard she's busy with technology development, some friendly competition with Colonel Villemont."

"Right, old man Tubarov." He nodded and looked back at Andretti, his eyes narrowing. After a moment of silence, he spoke again. "Andretti, that mustache looks ridiculous."

Andretti raised an eyebrow and rubbed his dark, carefully-styled mustache. "Really? I thought it made me look distinguished."

"No, not at all. You really need to get rid of it," Chernenko insisted.

At the head of the table there was a sharp tapping, as Flight Officer Luna Armonia, also wearing a hunter green uniform, got their attention by striking her stylus against the table edge. "If you two gentlemen are quite done, we can begin." Luna stared at him for another minute, before turning and beginning her briefing. The wall-mounted display came on and Chernenko turned to look at it.

"Our primary concern at L4 are three colonies in B-Area: B-1990, B-170 and B-0940. All three used to be under corporate administration by the Winner Corporation, the largest extraterrestrial mineral extraction company in Earth Sphere. They also control all strategic industries in L4 by corporate fiat from the Alliance period."

Three colonies were highlighted towards the middle of the cluster.

"When the May Revolutions began, the entire area launched into an armed revolt against the depleted Alliance garrisons stationed there. But these three colonies presented a unique situation: the Alliance administered them through the Winner Corporation, and when the Alliance retreated in late May, the Winner Corporation claimed that their 99-year-lease, ending in A.C. 232, was still binding. Certain colonies agreed them, others didn't. In any case, the three colonies declared their sovereignty along with their intention of forming a common market independent of the Winner Corporation. They've intended to do this by forming a coalition called 'BACD'," Luna explained, pronouncing it 'bahked'.

"The B-Area Community for Democracy," Chernenko said, nodding. "That I've heard of. A very innocuous name."

"The Winner Corporation has repeatedly insisted that the BACD colonies have no new legal rights, but at the same time, has not taken any violent action, instead relying on an economic blockade and sanctions against the new market. BACD's neighbors have felt different, and launched a bomber campaign against the three colonies. A colony that wanted to join BACD was immediately occupied by paramilitary forces."

"I saw the headlines," Andretti mumbled.

"We've spoken to BACD's secretariat and asked them to sue for peace on antebellum terms. They've agreed, provided we arbitrate a permanent solution for the area, which we will do for the time being," Luna explained coolly. "They also requested a colonial or Lunarian envoy to represent OZ. Since I am…unsuited…Chernenko, your team will provide security for the conference and accompany the official envoy, Flight Lieutenant Andretti."

Andretti acknowledged the fact with a nod.

"I hope that doesn't cause any problems sir," Luna said carefully.

He smirked. "Never blame someone for giving you an easy assignment. At least it sounds easy. When do we leave?"

The two were soon preparing to depart the space fortress. Andretti caught up with Chernenko an hour later, in one of _Barge_'s hangars, finding him already wearing his normal suit.

"Everything in order, _Dmitry Alexandrovich_?"

"Yes Andretti," he replied, matching his mocking tone. "Is that the new uniform? I barely noticed it with your ridiculous mustache."

Andretti ignored the joke and glanced down. "Yes they are. There's been such a demand for officers' uniforms among the colonial militias and new units, they've commissioned an outfit on Luna to start producing new ones, in Stevinus City I think."

His uniform was in the traditional OZ colors—hunter green, maroon sleeves, with epaulets and gold trim and piping indicating his service in the Mobile Suit Troops. It was cut differently than Chernenko's daily uniform, and instead like a double-breasted tunic rather than a tailcoat that was worn fully-buttoned. _Cut like an old Alliance uniform, they probably have the patterns left over from the Alliance Lunar government. I wonder what other weird stuff the Alliance left on Luna_, Chernenko thought.

"Not as elegant," he said, looking at his sleeves. "But if it establishes continuity with the new troops in the colonial militias, it's worth it for the time being."

"You should be more worried about that monstrosity over your lip."

"Would you shut up about my mustache already?" Andretti laughed, giving Chernenko a playful punch in the shoulder. "I don't bother you about fixing that hideous scar of yours."

"The difference being I'm allowed to have my scar. It's only a matter of time before they ask you to shave that stupid thing."

**VII**

When Quatre Winner woke, he found himself surprised at his new surroundings: he was sitting in a hospital room, empty except for a young woman checking medical equipment nearby.

"Good, you're awake," she told him. "How do you feel?"

Winner muttered something, trying to gather his strength, as his eyes wandered across the room.

"You're on a resource satellite, Haram. Do you remember what you were doing in a mobile suit? You're obviously not an Alliance soldier," she told him as she checked the readings.

Panic returned. "No, I'm not, I swear…" he said, cringing in pain as he tried to sit up. His entire body felt drained, every muscle aching and straining to function.

"Don't try and move yet," she told him sternly while rushing to hold him down. "If you'd drifted in space for much longer, you would have died."

"Why did you save me?"

"Isn't it obvious? I'm a doctor, and I'm not in league with either OZ or the Alliance," she assured him. "Besides, you're at L4, the neutral zone beyond their control."

Half-way across the Lagrange point, at the colony of L4-B-1990 an emergency session of parliament had been called, including envoys from the other BACD colonies.

"First, I would like to thank our en-route OZ representative to attending this session in spirit, if not in person," the chief speaker began, gesturing to an empty seat in the front row with a comm unit sitting on the desk in front of it: a small black box with a number of secure cables running back and underneath the desk, with a line of red text lit up on one of its unadorned surfaces.

**OZ 82**

**OUTER SPACE**

**SOUND ONLY**

There was the required short round of applause and the light in front of the comm unit lit up and the speaker turned to that desk. "_Thank you for the kind reception, Mr. Speaker_," Flight Lieutenant Andretti's voice announced after some delay.

"Now, our first order of business: seven days ago, 17 August, forty mobile suits seized from the Alliance military occupied the colony of B-181, hours after its announcement to join the Community for Democracy. Earlier today, the occupying forces formally announced their plans to legitimize their occupation and install a new government in B-181. This military action calls into question whether any colony in the fourth Lagrange Point has the right of political association outside of the Winner Corporation."

There was a period of murmuring from the seats.

"Has there been a condemnation from the Winner Corporation?"

"No. The Winner Corporation condemned the initial invasion of B-181 and simultaneously condemned its request to associate with an 'unlawful organization', that is to say, the Community for Democracy," another parliamentarian announced. "There has been no statement from the Winner Corporation concerning the occupation since then."

"All this over strategic industries? _Our _industries?" one asked.

"We knew this would happen! Winner would never surrender control over the economy, much less weapons factories!" another responded.

The light went on again and the audience quieted. "_Sir, what about the Lagrangian Congress? At the Haram Resource Satellite? Have they issued a statement_?" Andretti was referring to the parliamentary body for each Langrange Point—L4's was held at the headquarters of the Winner Corporation, and in the past, like its other counterparts served as a rubber-stamp body for the Alliance government. Now the Lagrangian Congress was accused by some of being a rubber-stamp body for the Winner Corporation.

"Unfortunately not. We believe the congress doesn't want to act before Winner does."

"Actually, our comrades from OZ may be onto something," a foreign envoy added. "B-181 is under occupation and B-0940 is constantly harassed by paramilitary forces from Haram's neigbors. Meanwhile, the Winner Corporation prefers to play 'blame the victim' and places the fault on _us _for barely managing to defend ourselves. Why don't we demand an emergency session in the Lagrangian Congress?"

A local parliamentarian stood up. "Agreed! Are we not L4 colonies? Don't we have a right to call a congress?"

There was a chorus of agreement, particularly from the foreign envoys. The chief speaker looked around nervously and tapped his gavel.

"Order, please sirs! Now, I certainly appreciate the concerns expressed, but I don't think it's in the interests of this body or BACD to pressure the Lagrangian Congress, no matter how legitimate our grievances might be. The congress may see themselves being pushed into a corner, or worse, compelled…" he said before he was cut off by angry booing.

"The Winner Corporation won't stand for this! They'll see it as a challenge to their authority!" another parliamentarian announced, coming to the speaker's defense.

"And so what? They've already levied sanctions on us and spat in our faces!" another fired back.

In his transcolony passenger shuttle, escorted by three Taurii in fighter mode, Andretti listened to the footage at his seat in the cabin, stroking his mustache. "Apparently, Armonia was right. The situation is practically at civil war. And here I was thinking that the media was exaggerating."

He rested back in his seat as the arguing grew louder. "Though I wonder if we've pushed this on, or simply let it take its course."

**VIII**

On Earth, the pace of fighting had slowed down in North America, as the last Alliance remnants rapidly exhausted their remaining means and will to fight. At the Mountain Home Air Force Base, home base of the 40th Canadian Victorian Cross Airborne Battalion, a foreign airman on guard duty waited in a security office, watching a late night TV talk show discuss the possibility of a North American Union.

"_Okay, no one doubts Utah is going to fall. That's just a fact—it's a miracle they survived this long, and the invasion of Colorado will go down in the history of bad decisions with McClellan at Antietam. But does that automatically translate to another chance for a union? I don't think so. If anything, Utah falling is only going to raise the level of bad blood opposing a union, assuming the delegates even get to the Washington to negotiate._"

"_You realize you're overlooking something just as obvious as Utah's fall: the United States of North America is the best bet for the people of North America, even if it doesn't include Central America and unoccupied Canada…_"

"Hmmm, wer ist 'McClellan'?" the airman asked, sitting back in his chair and turning down the volume.

In the barracks, F/O William O'Brien was fast asleep when the piercing whistle of another flight officer's whistle jerked him out of his bunk.

"Squadron Commander in the barracks!" the F/O shouted loudly, whistle in his hand. The eight pilots in the barracks bunk beds, the current active pilots in O'Brien's squadron, groaned and rolled over, much like he did.

The commander adjusted his glasses. "At ease, everyone, this'll just take a moment."

The pilot sleeping above O'Brien groaned and rolled over, letting one of her legs fall over the side of the bed and nearly hit in him in the face. "Damn it, McKinley…"

"Actually, this only pertains to the gentlemen in this room, so you ladies can go back to sleep if you want," he continued, flipping a page in the folder he was holding. "We've gotten reports of small-scale fighting between the Federal and Christian States. The following pilots from this unit are being transferred: O'Brien, Yao, Martin, and Brown."

"Why…only us men again, sir?" O'Brien heard Brown shout from across the room, half-awake.

"Because we're fighting in Ohio," another voice, Yoa's, replied quickly.

"Wait, what? Sir, where is Ohio, and why does that matter?"

The squadron commander flipped to another page, then closed the folder. "Because Ohio has _de facto _bans on…pretty much…all…forms of birth control and contraception used by women, and OZ protocols don't allow women to be stationed there."

Over O'Brien's bed, McKinley stuck a single hand out and gave a thumbs up, before rolling over again and returning to sleep.

"The men on that list will report for transfer tomorrow at zero-seven-hundred. In the meantime, sorry for the interruption."

"Goddamn it!" O'Brien groaned after burying his face in his pillows. "The war's about to end here and I get transfer? That is such…God!" He punched his pillow repeatedly with his right fist.

The squadron commander chuckled at the response he'd gotten and left the barracks, stepping into the crisp night air. His adjutant, the flight officer, followed him before pausing for a second to look up at the night sky.

"Something the matter?"

"No, nothing sir. It's just we don't get nights like this in Palestine," he admitted with a laugh.

He nodded. "Sometimes it feels like the world left this place behind, quite a rarity isn't it?" He looked up himself and squinted. "You can see all the satellites and some of the larger debris even. Maybe even make out a few stars if you're lucky," he joked.

The F/O laughed and pointed in the direction of the southern sky. "Like that, sir?"

"Like what?"

"Over there, sir. Looks like a shooting star."

"By Jove, you're right," he replied, laughing again. "Must be a ship making a hard burn in low orbit. Much too high to be burning up in the atmosphere," he muttered.

"Or maybe one of those Gundams." This got another laugh from the squadron commander.

_Barge _was watching the same streak of light in the sky, which hit had identified as an object leaving Earth, not entering its atmosphere. It had skipped through the gaps in the satellite surveillance system, which was geared towards inbound detection and not atmospheric exits that sound have been detected at launch.

"Sir, what's going on?" Flight Officer Nichol asked, entering the overbridge to see Major Bremer staring calmly at the primary display.

"One unidentified, unresponsive contact, well clear of the low orbit debris field, most like from vector Delta Beta," Bremer informed him coolly without looking at him.

Nichol stopped at his side. "Do we have troops in the area?"

"A combat engineer squadron was in the area by coincidence. Unfortunately, they can't match its speed."

"Damn it all," he muttered.

Slowly, calmly, Bremer turned around and strolled to the back of the overbridge, as though what was happening barely concerned him. "It couldn't possibly defeat the warships we have in the area, but even our fast cruisers would have trouble getting into position on such short notice. I've ordered a squadron of interceptors on standby, they should be able to intercept before it clears our orbit."

"Sir, why haven't you deployed them then?"

"Because, Mr. Nichol, any attack on a bogey _must _be reported to our commander-in-chief unless otherwise ordered," Bremer reminded him, matter-of-factly. "I've already informed Lady Une that…"

Bremer stopped himself when he turned just in time to see the door to the overbridge open again and Lieutenant Colonel Une step through, in her dark red uniform. He gave Nichol one unmistakably malicious look before joining the other officers in saluting her.

"At ease. Major, you are relieved." She was followed by Officer Cadet Barton

"Yes, ma'am," he said, sitting at one of the crew positions.

Nichol glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. _This better not be out of spite for what happened during the Gundam attack_. He brought up a rendering of the vector the bogey was travelling, pursued by three Leo flights, a total of twelve mobile suits. The bogey's acceleration had remained steady at 20% higher than those of the Leos. "It's no use—if the target keeps accelerating, the Leos can't catch up. Its course corrections mean its route remains unchanged. Its destination must be the Bay Area," he said, using the common nickname given to a patch between three closely clustered, populous colonies in L1.

Une relaxed her posture, resting one arm on her hip and the other on the console in front of her. "I'm not surprised they're unable too."

"It's been suggested that it may be Tallgeese."

"I don't care what it is, we can't allow mobile weapon to enter our proximity."

"We may be able to get rid of it with the mobile dolls," Trowa commented calmly. "However…"

Une turned to him, curious.

"Earlier we received word that the Gundam designers have made their two prototypes operational. I'd like to take the opportunity to see the capabilities of both the Mercurius and the Vayeate."

Bremer smirked from his seat but said nothing. Tycho was not as restrained. "Our first test flight of those two weapons can't be a live combat scenario, you fool!" he snapped before Une could call him off.

"Aside from you, who would be the other pilot?"

"Colonel Une, if we are doing this, I must insist I be the other pilot, ma'am."

Barton ignored him. "We need another outstanding pilot for an effective test, otherwise they'd just be getting in the way."

"What's that, Officer Cadet?" Nichol countered sharply.

"I understand."

"Colonel!"

"Trowa Barton, you've the command to intercept the Tallgeese."

He saluted. "Ma'am!"

Nichol clenched his jaw and looked away, causing Une to glance at him again. "Send word to Luna to have both units ready. As for the other pilot…?"

"There's only one suitable person: Heero Yuy."

"What? Colonel!" Nichol burst out.

"I understand. Barton, you have command for this operation."

He saluted. "Yes ma'am."

"But will the mobile dolls be sufficient? Wouldn't we be better off sending in manned Taurus units, like Squadron 1 or Squadron 3?"

Tycho made no effort to hide his transforming expression having gone from disgust to severe alarm. In his mind, an image of Squadron 1's Walker flashed by, followed by Colonel North. He recalled the conversation they'd had, when he briefly attended his strategy session with Bremer and a rather quiet Walker, echoed in his head. _"Promise me, Nichol. On your oath as an officer. If the commander-in-chief asks you to do something _you _think endanger the lives of Seventh Division's pilots, my pilots, you will do everything you can to dissuade her."_

_"Sir…I…"_

_"No excuses, Nichol. Just promise me. That."_

And he had promised. A Taurus without a pilot was just a mobile suit. With the flip of a switch, it became a mobile doll: not as good as a pilot, probably, but unflinchingly, unfailingly reliable. And more disposable than a pilot.

"Actually, I agree with Barton," he managed to say straight-faced. "Mobile dolls would be best."

Une raised an eye at his sudden affability. "Is that so? Mobile dolls it is. We'll deploy a unit directly from Luna."

Once again, Nichol made no effort to hide his emotions, this time relief.

"The orders have been sent out, m'am," Bremer announced. "And what will we do if it is Tallgeese and Zechs Merquise?" he asked.

"We have procedures for dealing with deserters and traitors who kill their own men," Une reminded him.

"I see, Colonel. Do we have procedures for dealing with both?" he asked.

Bremer hadn't been making a joke, but Une chuckled anyway.

**IX**

While _Barge _remained on alert, Une, Nichol, and Barton had all boarded a high-speed transfer shuttle to Marius City, where OZ's Project _Bliznet_ was waiting: OZ-13MX1 and OZ-13MX2 prototype mobile suits. With efficiency that actually impressed Barton, OZ's Lunar personnel were rapidly making final preparations to deploy immediately.

"Confirming that the bogey has not performed any further course corrections or burns and is transferring to its destination in the colony cluster under its current momentum."

"Acknowledged! The vehicle has passed _Barge_'s orbit, but an interception is still possible. Scanning says it's large for a mobile suit, possibly a type of mobile weapon or a mobile suit paired to one or more large booster vehicles."

"I didn't know that the Lunar military was so efficient," Barton observed.

"They're not just factory laborers, Sedici runs a tight ship," Une explained as they departed their shuttle.

"Sedici…" Trowa mumbled as an officer saluted Une.

"Ma'am, we're ready with the prisoner."

"I'd better see to him myself," Trowa said, gesturing to the security detail to follow him.

"Go ahead, Officer Cadet."

As Barton departed, Nichol stood, frowning, a high walkway overlooking the red and blue mobile suits, completed and armed. He didn't bother hiding his disapproval. Near him, a number of engineers were chattering among each other.

"Bring the APU_s _online."

"Yes sir. Units one and two online…units three and four online."

Nichol leaned towards them. "I see their chasses are identical. What exactly are they packing?"

"The one on the right, Mecurius, carries an improved beam carbine from the Leo along with a crash shield for close combat, and its defensor units. On the left, Vayeate, is armed solely with a capital-ship grade beam cannon attached to its own APU." One of the engineers held up a tablet with Vayeate's beam cannon displayed on it; Nichol took it and tried to make sense of the details. "It should output more than Gundam Zero-One's beam cannon."

"Isn't that overkill? A Taurus beam cannon was enough to kill a Gundam."

"But not a cruiser. The design team was thinking ahead."

"Right. Best get the design team out here, actually. If these things explode on deployment, I want them to be here for it. Sergeant!"

A noncommissioned officer appeared. "They're on their way, sir."

Nichol crossed his arms and waited patiently, turning when he saw a flicker of red out of the corner of his eye: in the traffic control level for the bridge, through the bay windows he spotted Lieutenant Colonel Sedici, commander of the Lunar Military District. Squinting, he noticed the colonel was missing something. _Where's Andretti? Off doing something more important than this?_

"Hurry up with those calibrations!" Une barked, leaning over the guardrails, at the parallel gantryway adjacent to the Gundams. Both machine's cockpits were open with a security detail gathered around Mercurius and Heero Yuy. One man undid Yuy's handcuffs and stood back, the other's sub-machineguns trained on him as he climbed into the cockpit. Nichol stood next to her and was about to bring up Andretti's absence when a distinctive, shrill voice interrupted him.

"So, what do you think? How does OZ like Mercurius and Vayeate?" It was the L1 Gundam designer, the self-identified 'Dr. J'. Even with his optical prosthetics, he was clearly beaming.

Une turned, clearly pleased. "They're excellent! Certainly worth your reputation as the Gundam design team." She actually sounded genuine in her praise.

Dr. J touched his prosthetic eyes with his claw. "You were right to leave the matter to us."

"Even so, this is still dangerous! Why are you allowing a Gundam pilot to operate Mercurius?"

"_Because he _is _a Gundam pilot_," Barton's voice reverberated through the hangar over Vayeate's head-mounted loudspeaker. "_OZ should know his piloting skills better than anyone_."

_Interesting how he says 'OZ' instead of 'we', _Nichol thought.

"And Mercurius's self-detonation system can be activated by Vayeate's pilot?"

"Ah, indeed, just as you requested!" Dr. J assured her.

"Barton, you have the authority to destroy Mercurius if its pilot behaves at all suspicious!" she said over her shoulder.

"_I don't think that'll be necessary, ma'am. After all, if it is Tallgeese, he's already fought it in Siberia. This'll be his chance to finish that battle._" He paused while Yuy kept making adjustments, standing on the cockpit door. "_This time, the colonies won't be an obstacle to him completing his mission._"

Nichol snorted. There was barely a response to Trowa Barton's comment from the Lunar military personnel, even if they knew what he was talking about; they'd all seen that Taiwanese late-night talk show after all. Une smirked and, abruptly, a chill went down his spine. _Maybe Une didn't see that interview with His Excellency. Or maybe the _other _Une did, and she's genuinely insane. Are we really being led around by a madwoman? _

"How did you hear about that?" she asked calmly. The other military officers did respond, however subtly, to that comment. One of the men in the detail watching Yuy almost lowered his weapon before raising it again.

"_I'm in OZ, it wasn't hard to find out_." The tension lowered a little. "_It's a good thing he self-detonated, I was living on a colony at the time, I may not have lived._"

"I should be as well," she replied candidly. "Otherwise I would have lost as fine an officer as yourself." She didn't hear Nichol's snort behind her as he watched Yuy pull on his sky blue normal suit over his biker shorts and green tank top.

**X**

Walker didn't realize he was asleep until he'd already woken up in the officer's barracks board _Barge_. Sitting upright, he turned to the neatly-folded pile of clothing he had to return to the CAST armory, along with the compact pistol he'd been lent.

He wiped his forehead and took off his field cap, then stretched his back. "Maybe I am being overworked," he muttered to himself. He decided to take something 'light' and took the compact touch computer that Second Lieutenant Lindsey had given him earlier. Pressing his naked hand against it, he opened the biometric lock and brought up the connection to the data servers of the Main Armaments Directorate on Earth.

_I need a keyboard on this thing. _He brought up his report in the word processor, then found the section for the Project 'Bliznet'. _Two mobile suits—perhaps more accurately called 'Gundams'. They are made out of that polymeric alloy, and they're capable of operating in Outer Space as well as on Earth. They meet all the criteria. I'm sure they're complete by now._

His thoughts turned to Shalua Yuy and he shivered a little bit. First Luna, then L3-X-18999. He'd have to rethink the next dangerous errand he undertook, he felt no more suited to that sort of thing than when he'd been rolling around in regolith a few days ago.

There was a high-pitched beep from the wall. "_Flight Lieutenant Walker, report to Major Bremer on the overbridge._"

"Acknowledged," he replied before replacing his field cap, closing the stand on the back of the tablet leaving his room and grabbing the nearest guide rail.

Bremer was waiting on the overbridge, the display behind him highlighted multiple objects in highly-elliptical Earth orbit. A number of dots, indicating OZ mobile weapons, moved in a single boxy formation indicating the very close distance they were operating at—the data wasn't very precise under a hundred meters. On the adjacent screen was the incomplete outline of large yellow circle with numbers counting down in the center—the generic military computer countdown display.

"Walker, punctual as usual."

"Bogey in engagement range in one minute, fifty!" an junior officer chirped.

"Sir! What's going on?" he asked while peering past him at the display.

"Colonel Une sent a two-man team to intercept a bogey on orbit to the middle of L1, along with a squadron of mobile dolls out of Luna. We're still waiting on confirmation without the EWAC_s_, but we think that it might be the Tallgeese prototype," Bremer said, having the display zoom in on the portion of the orbit past _Barge_'s own. When he turned to Walker he was almost taken aback—Walker had grown a shale paler and was visibly disturbed.

"Flight Lieutenant, is something wrong?"

"S-Sir, do we know who's aboard it?"

"We don't even know that it has a crew, we just assume it's not unmanned. I saw the reports—Zechs Merquise was in league with the Gundams in Antarctica, but was M.I.A. in the Indian Ocean." Bremer sighed. "We really need to just start shooting traitors and saboteurs from now on, and stop with this whole 'honorable captive' bullshit, but forget trying to convince the colonel of that."

"Engagement range in one minute, twenty."

He looked back at him. "Walker, are you sure you're all right? You look a little damp under the collar."

As if on cue, Walker actually reached with his free hand and pulled at his collar. "Yes sir, I'm f-fine," he managed to almost-stammer out.

"Well, if you and two Taurii could stop a Gundam, I imagine the two new prototypes and a squadron of mobile dolls is overkill. Nothing to worry about, really," he speculated coolly. "If he's in there, Zechs Merquise might as well have drowned in the Indian Ocean."

"Do you mean Mercurius and Vayeate, sir?"

"Yes, those two," he said. As he looked away, one of the solid white dots indicating a mobile doll in formation beeped, then vanished.

"Mobile Doll number four has gone offline, sir," a bridge officer announced promptly. "Running diagnostics now."

"Offline?"

While the system diagnostic program began running, another dot vanished with a similar beep, followed by another.

"Two more mobile dolls offline, sir, number six and number nine."

"Get Colonel Sedici on the line, the command relay is at his end. Tell them we're getting erroneous reports."

"Another one's down sir."

As the dots continued vanishing, Bremer barely noticed as Walker slinked over to an empty console and put his heads in his hands silently. The squadron hadn't even engaged the bogey. "Is Luna seeing what we're seeing? If so, Colonel Une should be having a conniption right now."

"Still no response from Colonel Sedici," a voice announced.

"Engagement range in thirty…twenty nine…twenty eight…twenty seven…"

"So, the infamous Zechs Merquise lives up to his reputation," Bremer muttered while shaking his head as the countdown continued. "So great is the killer of his own men, mobile dolls are destroyed simply by proximity."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

_The mighty Dekim Barton makes his appearance—hopefully a good one. When trying to think of someone a young Dekim might have seen as a hero, I'm not sure exactly how I settled on the legendary Soviet dissident, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. For those of you not familiar with him, Solzhenitsyn wrote the legendary expose of the Soviet prison-labor system, _The Gulag Archipelago_, which despite a greater modern availability of knowledge in that area, is still a seminal work on the subject. He is also the subject of no small amount of controversy over his own political beliefs, religious and cultural perspectives. One would not expect Walker to know who he was though. _

_'Haram', or 'Sanctuary' in Arabic, was the best name I could come up for the resource satellite that is Quatre's home—I'm not pleased with it, but it's what came to me. The setup for the remainder of Episode 21 is clear, and I should be able to knock through it quite quickly in the next chapter (I would have considered here, but I felt this was going to long as it was). The situation of L4 is, however, more of a footnote in the face of the return of Zechs Merquise as Millardo Peacecraft, which one of two wrenches thrown into the machinery that is supposed to finally wipe out the Alliance in Outer Space. It succeeds, all the same, but the process isn't shown, which makes it all the more remarkable. The second one is Une's less than rational military decisions, and the policy towards the Gundam pilots up to her injury at the hands of Tubarov. I'm explaining it in one particular way: namely, delusional madness, as the two Une personalities come into conflict with one another. Of course, her decisions might be _right_, but from the standpoint of a pre-Treize Faction OZ, they're extremely difficult to rationalize and sometimes tantamount to treason._

_Speaking of treason, it belatedly occurred to me a chapter or two back that Walker's superior, Marcus North, despite being modeled after Don Cheadle, has a name that sounds a lot like that of the infamous Oliver 'Ollie' North of the Iran-Contra scandal in the United States. The real North is banned from Costa Rica for reasons relating to that. I suspect this is a case of my subconscious basing names off existing ones, and thus, creating another Lieutenant Colonel North. _


	35. A Public Betrayal

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 35 – A Public Betrayal**

Past the orbit of Space Fortress _Barge_, two mobile suits from OZ's Space Mobile Suit Troops exchanged fire with a single enemy combatant. A number of new mobile dolls were supposed to have joined in the fighting, but all but three had been destroyed—by their human counterparts.

Three OZ-01MD weapons, Taurus mobile suits toggled to their automation software, received orders transmitted from their command unit, the OZ-13MSX1 'Vayeate'. With mechanical obedience, the remaining mobile dolls throttled up and closed in on their target: Tallgeese.

In Tallgeese, Zechs Merquise jettisoned his booster engines and brought his vernier boosters to full power. The Taurii were already peppering him with beam fire when he responded with shots from his dober gun. The Taurii immediately evaded with maneuvers that would have killed human pilots, but one was a few milliseconds too late, and an APFSDS passed cleaning through its right arm, severing it. The Taurus continued its maneuver, now unarmed.

"My reaction time's a little slower than theirs," Zechs muttered to himself. He doubled back and had lbetter uck on his second pass, managing to destroy two Taurii with the remaining shells in his magazine before ejecting it.

"But I can make up for it at close-range!"

As his machine replaced its magazine, it barely avoided a close-range attack from OZ-13MSX2 'Mercurius', barreling down at him. Tallgeese quickly started exchanging firing with the two manned weapons, now working in tandem. Just as he was going to land a shot on Vayeate, Mercurius' defensor units would block his shot, bringing the tungsten core shells to a dead-halt so quickly with their magnetic fields that they deformed in shape. The magnetic field would go down for the split second it took Vayeate to fire its massive anti-ship beam cannon, which he narrowly dodged in turn.

Back on _Barge_, a number of officers watched the battle with interest.

"According to their programming, the mobile dolls would not have responded if they were attacked by either Mercurius or Vayeate. Their preservation programming and self-defense routines are only applied to registered enemy combatants. If either mobile suit attacked a mobile doll, it wouldn't do anything until its programming routine was changed remotely." Flight Lieutenant Walker, who had been watching from behind a console, sat back down when he finished his explanation.

Lieutenant Colonel North gave a knowing smile and leaned towards Major Bremer standing next to him. "I have a little pull with the navy." He reached forward and tapped a nearby keyboard, highlighting two ships on the primary screen that were closing in on Tallgeese.

Bremer blinked. "The _Dhaka _and the _Atlanta_, joined by patrol ship F-320."

"You don't think that would be enough?"

Bremer responded after a pause. "Sir, the Sun Queen crippled an entire _Titan-_class almost single-handedly with a Leo. Consider what Zechs Merquise would be capable of with Tallgeese."

"Excellent point," he replied. "Let's hope our two new prototypes can beat our old one."

"Diagnostic is complete, sir. It's a ninety percent certainty that all mobile dolls have been destroyed or otherwise incapacitated."

North gave Bremer and eerie half-smile. "Helm, how long would it take to turn _Barge _and place Tallgeese in the range of the forward Noventa cannon?"

"We'd need to find a firing solution first, sir."

"Please find one. Just the firing solution, please!" he added quickly.

Bremer's eyes wandered across the overbridge before turning back to North. "Colonel, can I have a word with you? Privately?"

North nodded and the two stepped to the back over the overbridge, out of earshot of the crew. "There seems to be something wrong with your man Walker," he whispered, gesturing to him. Flight Lieutenant Walker sat, very rigidly, in the front row on the overbridge, his eyes planted on the screen and his face paler than normal.

"There certainly seems to be."

Walker didn't appear to respond when Second Lieutenant Lindsey stood up from the comms station. "Tallgeese just pinged the EHF channel! Putting it to speaker!"

The three mobile suits held their fire, now alone in the middle of a field of mobile doll debris.

"_I've no time to play games with the likes of you. Just haul me in_," Zechs announced. He opened his machine's hatch and exited, raising both his hands in the universal sign for 'surrender'.

The blue mobile suit did something Zechs didn't expect: its pilot opened its hatch and he could just barely make out the details of his face through his normal suit helmet. "_You're the last person I'd expected to infiltrate OZ_," he gloated at him.

"_This is Officer Cadet Trowa Barton. I don't believe we've met, Zechs Merquise._"

Out of the corner of his eye, Zechs noticed something casting a shadow on his left arm; glancing at Tallgeese's shoulder ball-joint, he saw another young man in an OZ normal suit pointing a service pistol at him from up high.

_Fine, I'll play along,_ he thought. "Then allow me to introduce myself. I am Millardo Peacecraft, and I've come from Earth as a goodwill ambassador to the colonies."

**II**

At the fourth Lagrange point, _Haram_ or 'Sanctuary' referred to the marriage of the stripped-empty MO-IV resource satellite a stripped-down L4 industrial colony. Both had been purchased by the Winner Corporation when the Alliance overestimated the iron and nickel content of the resource satellite and underestimated the damage caused by a fusion magnetic containment failure in the colony. Together, they served as the political and economic center of the Winner corporate empire.

Flight Lieutenants Andretti and Chernenko, OZ's envoys to the B-Area Community for Democracy, joined the multitude of delegates from Haram and other colonies arriving for a terrible task: the Lagrangian Congress. L4's unicameral parliament had been summoned for the first time in its history by someone other than an Alliance governor-general or a Winner.

"Well, this escalated quickly," Andretti muttered, smoothing the creases in his uniform and surveying the situation from the limousine. The motorcade of visiting members of parliament stood just behind a police barricade. In front of that, a sea of Winner Corporation detractors: demonstrators carrying banners and placards. They had the classic look about them: simply dress, some in particularly ragged, worn-out clothing or proletariat attire. All of them looked very unhappy.

"I heard BBC estimated at five-hundred thousand demonstrators."

"I'd like to go on the record as saying this was a very bad idea," Chernenko scowled at him as the two men turned to the steps leading up to parliament. "When the shooting starts, I will be blaming you in my report."

"Shut up and tow the party line," Andretti responded. "Zayeed Winner has made a political career of corporate strong-arming matched with a commitment to nonviolence. If BACD can rally enough votes, he'll have to concede to their demands. If they can't, the status quo prevails and BACD…is probably destroyed."

"You are a _horrible _diplomat, and I'm left wondering if Armonia already knew this, in which case, I should blame her as well. This whole thing was her idea, what good has it done besides agitate the masses?" Chernenko stopped halfway up the steps, pulling at the hem of his hunter green tunic. "And I hate these new uniforms," he hissed.

The two officers were unaware their movements were being watched by the very man they spoke up, staring down at them from his officer towering over the street level. Zayeed Winner, Haram's representative to the All-Colony Congress and the chief executive officer of the corporation that bore his name, watched them disappear into the building between deep, controlled breaths.

"We're fairly certain our sanctions have had the opposite effect: in Area 'B', a referendum to dissolve the independent faction failed to pass."

Winner turned to his aide. "By how much?"

"The referendum?" the aide asked. "Sir, six percent voted in affirmative, so...by eighty-eight percent?"

Winner sighed underneath his bushy mustache but said nothing else, so the aide continued. "Who would have imagined that, after twenty years of Alliance rule, a few colonies might declare their independence?"

"We are nothing like the Alliance," he calmly pointed out.

"Of course not, sir, but you must admit: the blockade necessary to _enforce _the embargo certainly resembled that of the Alliance, even if we were able to avoid violence…for the most part."

"For the _most _part?" Winner echoed, looking at him angrily.

"Your Honor, you cannot…how am I supposed to enforce a blockade with harsh language? I would really ask, _how_? When L4 is a sea of military hardware with the departure of the Alliance?" the young aide objected defensively.

Winner turned back. "Sea of weapons, you say?"

The aide sighed. "This isn't just about the common market, is it?"

"Of course not. The Alliance's war machine will never fall into OZ's hands, or anyone else's, for that matter. Not while the Winner Corporation exists," he said somberly.

"And the common market," the other muttered.

"If they want to call me 'dictator', let them, the fools."

"You think this is OZ's doing?" the aide asked.

"Of course it's OZ's doing. And I intend to put a stop to their meddling before it poisons any more minds."

"Even they have to acknowledge there was peace when we controlled ninety-seven percent of the military industry."

Winner shot him another glance before heaving a sigh. "Call the members of parliament. Let's get this over with."

**III**

When the station stood down from combat alert, Colonel North rose calmly from his seat and turned to the row ahead of him "Walker, let's take a little w-…a stroll, all right?"

"Of course, sir."

The two left the overbridge, North taking Walker by the shoulder when he was in arm's reach and holding him close. The color had already started returning to his face. "Hell of a day, hasn't it been, Lieutenant?"

"I suppose so, sir."

North nodded. "You know, I know that you were one of Zechs' top men in Japan. And, of course, that you found Tallgeese in Corsica."

Walker didn't respond, so North continued. "You know, I don't know what Une is going to do or if she can do something. But I _do _know that this is now well past the purview of the Seventh Division." He held Walker close and raised a hand. "None of what just happened leaves that overbridge."

"Of course, Colonel."

He nodded. "Are you going to be all right?"

The two stopped in the empty hallway. "Yes sir," Walker said emphatically.

North looked directly at him for a moment. _To be so young, and such a bad liar. _"'Atta boy. You looked burned out as hell. All those flying hours piling up. Get a good night sleep."

"Thank you sir," Walker muttered before grabbing a guiderail and being dragged away.

"Maybe you should see Dr. Arai," he called out after him, frowning as a door along the corridor swung open loudly. "Luna, what brings…" he began before catching himself and smiling widely. "I'm sure you're taking the appearance of this 'Millardo Peacecraft' as well as anyone."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Luna Armonia replied, straight-faced as usual. "I just received words that L4's congress is about to begin and they'll be addressing the BACD issue."

"Christ, that again, I'd completely forgotten," he muttered, putting a hand on his forehead and glancing at his wristwatch. "They're convening parliament at eleven at night?"

"It's already the twenty-fifth in L4," Luna reminded him.

"Of course. Well you better find a TV with ESPAN-5, shouldn't you?"

Luna saluted smartly with a gloved hand before leaving. North watched her float down the hallway, shaking his head. "What the hell is wrong with kids these days?"

As Luna warned, in the hours following Tallgeese's discovery, the morning session of the Langragian congress began, with its first order of business: a condemnation of the violence at B-1990, B-170, B-181 and B-0940. The MPs supporting BACD had been counting on exactly that, and they took the opportunity to force the issue into discussion.

A stout, balding man in a grey suit spoke among the muttering and chattering MPs. "Sirs, excuse me! Sirs, please, I request the floor!"

The chief speaker glanced nervously at Zayeed Winner, standing at the head of the chamber, silent, and pounded his gavel. "The floor recognizes Mr. Hussein!"

"Excuse me! Excuse me!" Hussein repeated.

"I want to hear him!" Winner barked commandingly, and the chattering died down.

Hussein wiped his brow with his handkerchief and nodded. "Thank you. I am the elected representative of the B-181 government-in-exile. My colony has been occupied by the paramilitary forces from Colony L4-A-235…"

Immediately another MP on the opposite side of the chamber shot to his feet and shook his fist. "Slander! Slander! I can't believe what ridiculous…"

"Let him speak!" another MP shouted.

"…by the paramilitary forces from Colony L4-A-235, including a number of illegally converted merchant marine ships leased from the Winner Corporation! Additionally, A-235 has deployed a total of eight operational 'Leo' mobile suits within the colony itself. And you well-dressed, distinguished men have not done anything about it!" Hussein was immediately overwhelmed by chattering and gasps of disbelief.

"Eight Leos?" Chernenko whispered to Andretti.

"Colonel Sedici said there could be anywhere up to a full division of mobile suits still in L4. We don't know how thoroughly the Alliance evacuated—we're counting on more rather than less, given 'Citadel'," he whispered back.

"Regardless of political stances towards the Community for Democracy, L4 and the Winner Corporation cannot stand by and allow this illegal occupation to continue!" Hussein pleaded with some agreement.

"We've entrusted our sovereignty to the Winner Foundation for exactly this reason! Something must be done!" someone shouted across the chamber.

The A-235 representative pounced. "For this so-called 'occupation', my colony has gone to considerable financial hardship to guarantee the safety of Outer Space! It is a known fact that B-105 contains an intact Alliance military depot," he charged, waving a folded sheet of paper in his hand. "Weapons that were going to be delivered to the so-called 'Community of Democracy'!"

"This is absurd!" another MP cried out. "You have at least operational mobile suits, and you're complaining about an old _weapons depot_?"

"Our ownership of that equipment and this police action are legal by mandate of _this very body_!"

The speaker pounded his gavel. "The president of this body, Mr. Winner, and myself reserve the right to set the itinerary. We will discuss political sedition on the terms we dictate!

The chamber was rapidly devolving into a shouting match as Andretti, arms crossed, leaned towards his comrade. "Isn't _this _a treat? Imagine how bored they are on _Barge _right now."

**IV**

"No, no, no, no, no!" Second Lieutenant Hopkins scrambled through one of the corridors in _Barge_, literally bouncing off the walls more than once. He made it to Bremer's office, still shouting the same thing.

"No what?" Bremer asked sleepily, looking up from his small desk. The small clock on the desk read 02:20.

"Major, sir, tell me you didn't let Cadet Barton back onto _Barge_."

"Of course I did, he's stationed here under Une's orders."

"_Why?_" Hopkins screamed, causing Bremer to lean away from him in his chair.

"Hopkins, what exactly is wrong? And please try and tell me without shouting."

Hopkins stood back and, very deliberately, exhaled in a long but stuttered breath. When he opened his eyes again, he leaned forward. "There were two pilots in that unit that located Zechs Merquise. Besides them, sir, the only people who observed the operation were yourself, Colonel Une, Colonel North and his subordinate, and myself."

Bremer stared at him. "And?"

"_And_, sir, it was really in our best interest to keep it that way."

Bremer nodded dutifully before pausing. "Excuse me, 'was'?"

Hopkins jammed his mobile in the major's face and Bremer took it. The screen was on, and set to a social networking website hosted on _Barge_'s intranet.

"'Truthers Unite. You have nothing to lose but your ignorance.' Well, that's a play on Marx, but otherwise I don't follow. What exactly are these 'truthers' and why should I care?"

"_Sir_," Hopkins began, now whining. "News of Zechs Merquise's reappearance has already circulated on multiple military social networks, and will soon be common knowledge on the 'Net! These 'truthers' are conspiracy theorists undermining our official status on Merquise's disappearance!"

"I suppose that _is _a bad thing," Bremer said without sounding that concerned. "Well, even if it hadn't leaked here on _Barge_, I'm sure 'Millardo Peacecraft' had no intention of keeping his arrival in Outer Space a secret. But thank you for bringing this to my attention, perhaps you should speak to Colonel Une about it. I'd like to get some sleep."

"Of course, sir, but I…"

"_Thank you, Lieutenant Hopkins_," Bremer repeated more insistently.

Hopkins bit down on his tongue then saluted. "Yes sir. Barton, sir." He promptly left, the door shutting behind him.

"I bet it was that Barton fellow. Une lets him do whatever he cares to anyway," Bremer grumbled, finishing unbuttoning his tunic.

"_Well, you know how kids like him love to gossip_," North's voice said from a speaker on his desk.

Bremer smirked. "Tell me, sir, would you have really fired the Noventa cannon at them?"

There was a pause. "_I'd considered it, but I don't really know._"

"You have the operational authority. Une might be a commander-in-chief, but she's still a lieutenant colonel."

"_She's _the _lieutenant colonel. But she might be disturbed enough that I could get away with it. Or she might retaliate. I suppose it depends on which Une I was dealing it._"

"It wouldn't have been a significant loss," Bremer muttered.

"_Except for the two prototypes and their combat data._"

"With all due respect, sir, you and your bloody mobile suits!" he replied with a snort. This got a laugh from North as well.

While _Barge_'s midnight shift continued, and the officers he'd worked with slept, Hopkins stared at the desktop computer in his room, his left eyelid twitching erratically. With a thermos of coffee in his left hand, he watched as a computer program counted down the number of occurrences of 'Zechs Merquise' appearing in both the civilian and military media for the last several weeks, plotting them out on a chart.

"It must have been Barton, that longhaired _twat_," he muttered finally.

**V**

"Watch your head, Master Aircrew, the doors on these BMP_'s _are kind of small!" the cheerful Eurasian vehicle commander called out.

"Thank you." Yoshitsune could still clearly hear nearby mobile weapon fire when he exited the infantry fighting vehicle through the low hatch. A naval infantryman approached with a patch sewn on his hunter green combat fatigues reading 'FES'—the Mexican _Fuerzas Especiales_—and saluted sharply.

"What are we looking at here?"

"Right this way, sir!"

The soldier led him to a large, white concrete aircraft hangar that Yoshitsune immediately thought was conspicuous. There was something about it, like its un-aircraft-looking shut doors, its bleached white exterior, that immediately caught his eye.

"This is it."

"So far at Hill AFB, I've seen a Mormon chapel, a flower shop, a barber, and a video game vendor. And I have to say, this is much weirder than any of those." Yoshitsune shielded himself from the sunlight. "Was is it?"

"New Jerusalem Air Logistics Complex. The Utahans were evacuating the whole area, but they ran out of trucks at the end of the day."

"Right, no aviation fuel."

"Master Aircrew, you've come all this way, don't you want to see the inside?" he asked.

Yoshitsune cocked his head. "Lead the way, First Sergeant."

Through a shielded blast door, the two entered the hangar, only to find it largely empty except for the evidence of past industry: heavy cranes, palettes, aircraft tractors scattered across the floor.

"Looks like they had enough time," Yoshitsune said, his voice carried across the empty space.

"They got the smaller equipment, but you should see what they did leave behind."

The sergeant led him to another area, sealed off by another thick concrete wall and a heavy hydraulic door. Going through a much smaller hatch and climbing up a set of stairs, the two entered a rather normal-looking observation office.

After flipping a series of light switches, the sergeant slung his assault rifle over one arm and reached up, striking a flickering neon light. Yoshitsune rushed pass him and looked through the bay windows.

"You weren't joking." As the lights slowly came on in the main area, Yoshitsune stared at the concrete sarcophagus's centerpiece: an uninstalled 14-meter-long vernier rocket engine, missing its housing, sitting on a set of pylons in front of a shielded exhaust intake. The level he was in was lined with computer consoles clearly intended to display data from various instruments on or around the rocket engine. "The Americans call these 'hush houses', they're used for testing uninstalled engines like this."

"I thought as much, sir. They weren't building aircraft engines here, were they?"

"No, definitely not. The republic doesn't have the industrial capability for this sort of thing." He gestured out the window. "This isn't even an aircraft engine, it's too huge, there's no aircraft on Earth that could mount an even number of these things except _maybe _the Alliance flying fortresses. And it's a vernier rocket."

"Vernier…so it's a spacecraft engine, sir?"

"It must be. But I've seen every propulsion system used by the Alliance military, and I don't recognize it. It's not something built by OZ."

"Well, even if it wasn't built here, the North American have been manufacturing power plants like this for centuries. Could it been a prototype?"

"It must be," he admitted.

The sergeant was about to respond when the building shook faintly in time with a muffled explosion, a cloud of dust rising from the vibrations.

"We're on the outskirts of Salt Lake City and they're still holding out. What miracle must they be holding out for?"

"That's a good question, sir."

Yoshitsune ran his hand along the old whiteboard, wiping away the dust and revealing the indelible marks of numbers written in the past. "So, they had a functioning thruster engine, but they weren't satisfied. But the Alliance must have warehouse full of surplus frigate and destroyer engines. Why invest the resources and time needed to make a new engine from scratch?"

Bending over, the sergeant ran his hand through the shelves along the wall, knocking out a few rolls of paper. He took one and unrolled it against the wall. "It doesn't appear they left anything too specific for us, sir."

Yoshitsune tossed the notebook he'd been looking through over his shoulder. "Not long ago, I knew a flight lieutenant who could probably tell you exactly what they were doing here."

"It's a shame he's not here, sir."

"All of OZ's best engineers are in Outer Space, where the Alliance still stands a chance." He walked back over to the bay windows and stared out at the lone engine sitting on its pylons. "Anyone of those minds could crack this easily."

"And you, sir?"

He didn't answer. Instead, Yoshitsune took a deep breath, closed his eyes and tightened his grip on the railing in front of him. He tried to focus, reconstructing the observation level in his mind's eye, then the chamber below it, based on his past experiences at OZ's own testing facilities. Filling in the missing equipment, the data readouts, visualizing the engine active and pouring out exhaust into the intake system behind them. It was a few years earlier, at the Tashkent Aerial Mobile Suit Factory, one of the producers of Aries mobile suits.

_"Go ahead and cut the feed." _Still a flight officer, Walker waved twice over his shoulder, then raised his trademark goggles over his cap.

_"How does it look?" _Even if Yoshitsune couldn't place the exact date, he remember the conversation very clearly.

_"Perfectly fine. It's not a breakthrough, but it shouldn't be, if you think about it."_

_"I guess if it means we can add another tonne of reactive armor and ammunition, it'll be worth it. Even if it isn't revolutionary."_

Walker nodded. _"As they say, a good scientist has original ideas. A good engineer makes a working design with as few original ideas as possible." _He crossed his arms and stared over the short Aries turbofan engine sitting on the testing floor.

_"Who said that?"_

Walker looked at him and uncharacteristically winked. _"A scientist, naturally."_

Walker's words echoing in his mind like shouting in an empty hangar, Yoshitsune opened his eyes and stared intently over the testing floor, then glanced at the unrolled schematic documents scattered across the floor.

"There are no prima donnas in engineering," he told the sergeant.

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Call Headquarters, tell them to find anyone who was in Colorado with a certain unit, service code EA-00MA. We need them at Hill AFB immediately." There was another explosion in the distance, and this time the room shook enough to disturb the coating of dust further. "And for God sakes, can someone tell me how far away that is?"

It was not very far. About a dozen kilometers away, on the north slope of Victory Mountain, formally Mt. Ogden, the 40th Canadian Victorian Cross Airborne Division's 98th Engineering Battalion, a specialist Leo unit, exchanged fire with the exhausted remains of an Utahan mixed unit, consisting of armored fighting vehicles and a dozen olive-drab Leos. The cobalt blue mobile suit almost leisurely raked the Alliance machines with beam and cannon fire, cutting through the pine trees and rocky outcroppings. One defender's machine was attempting to load a new magazine into its dober gun when its pilot caught something in the extreme edge of the camera view.

"_Not so fast, jerk!_" Eagle 2-1 did a vertical drop from above, scoring multiple hits before physically bashing the Leo with its chain rifle. The Leo tumbled backwards and rolled a bit down the slope, setting the trees around it on fire in the process.

"_Nice moves, McKinley_," a Leo pilot replied from the opposite side as the Aries landed on its extended legs and joined in the crossfire.

"_You know it, Trencher Leader._"

Trencher 1-1 flashed his monoeye at her before moving to take better cover further back. In the cockpit of her OZ-07AMS, McKinley toggled between radar modes and adjusted her goggles. "Is this some kind of diversion? Where're the rest of them?"

"_Unsure, Eagle 2-1. Recon says there are mobile suits well behind the front, but they're not mobilizing. They might be out of ammunition or fuel._"

Just a few kilometers away, on Victory's east slope, in the middle of a camouflaged armored convoy, Utah's Defense Minister calmly exited the infantry carrier he'd been riding up along the old paved road. The road ended at a collection of disguised buildings, intentionally looking abandoned, behind high perimeter fences dotted with discreet cameras and sensors.

"Look at this place," his secretary, a beautiful Utahan with fair skin and hair, muttered.

"I remember my father told me, when he was a child, it was still called Snowbasin Resort. Some of the best skiing in North America." He turned to his aide, wearing the same bulky Alliance battle fatigues, sans helmet, that he wore. "You know they had the Winter Olympiad here one year, back when the Olympics still existed?"

She gave a whistle. "What year?"

"I have no idea," he admitted briskly. "Whenever it happened, sixty years ago, the Alliance requested the land, and the republic sold it to them cheap."

Flanked by soldiers in alpine uniforms, they continued to the entrance at the security fence, cameras following them the whole way. The wind rushing up the mountain blew his secretary's hair over her shoulder.

"Fortunate for us, wouldn't you say?" he asked as they two proceeded onward. The former-resort's main building concealed a well-maintained, blast-proof steel lift, where a Utahan Army colonel was waiting to greet them.

"Defense Minister, sir, welcome to Victory Mountain. It's an honor."

"And it's a pleasure for us," the Defense Minister replied politely before giving him an incredulous look. "Don't tell me you're it."

"Of course not sir, but we are running on a skeleton staff," he assured him. "I assure you Victory Mountain is completely prepared to execute the first president's emergency order, whatever it may be."

"Which I have right here," the Minister replied, gesturing at his secretary, who gave him a sealed envelope and subjected himself to a handheld biometric scan. "But before we begin, I'd like to see what you have here for myself. Before it's all lost to OZ."

"Of course sir."

"I'll also need an encrypted military line to Outer Space, Ms. Cynthia will provide the details."

"Right away, sir."

The two took the massive lift down more than a hundred meters, descending deep into the mountainside. At the bottom of the shaft, a number of thick, Plexiglas doors swung open, one after another, each marked with a number and the universal biological hazard warning symbol. Beyond it was a long room with a number of large desks and cabinets and a shielded door at the end which looked like a fairly typical military laboratory.

"Beyond that door are our actual manufacturing facilities, but they've been deactivated for years. We do our best to keep them in working order," the colonel explained. "Naturally, our storage reservoirs are quite full, since we stopped producing actual rockets at around the same time."

He reached forward and tapped the large monitor display on the wall, activating the screen. Three dimensional diagrams of complex molecules, with brightly colored individual atoms and white lines for bonds, appeared. "Our primary product was the synthetic bioweapon YO-448, a pathogen created by our counterparts at Fort Detrick. It's an extremely modified version of the toxin ricin, used in aerosol, with a limited, reliable life in the wild. Those qualities would make it very effective in the colonies, had it ever been used."

The Defense Minister came to a stop near an empty receptionist's desk. "You don't happen to have a rocket you could show me, could you? A deactivated one, naturally?"

The colonel thought about it. "I think we might, sir, if you'll give me a moment."

The helpful officer excused himself while the other two waited. There was an echo from the PA system and a voice addressed them. "_Defense Minister, sir, the secure line is now available to you, sir, though it may take some time to get a response._"

"Thank you," he replied needlessly, as Ms. Cynthia sat behind one of the large desks and rapidly entering keystrokes into the center of the three keyboards arrange on it.

"We're through sir," she said, after entering the network address and waiting for a response. The video on the primary monitor was heavily distorted, though there appeared to be a dark-haired woman on camera.

"Counter Admiral Arroway, ma'am, can you hear me?" he asked loudly.

"You don't need to raise you voice, sir."

The response was belated. "_Yes, Major General, you're coming through_."

"Congratulations on your promotion to Alliance Defense Minister," he informed her with a smile.

"_I hope you didn't go through…all this trouble just for that_."

"Of course not. We're actually in Victory Mountain, preparing to launch the operation right now."

"_Good. If you succeed…I'll see you at Outer Space_," the voice replied, calmly if coldly.

"Yes ma'am," he replied just the line was terminated. "Frosty as ever, it would appear."

"Yes sir," Ms. Cynthia replied as the doors behind them opened again and the colonel returned, pushing an actual air-to-surface missile on a special cart. It was just under a meter and a half long and looked to weight about 30 kilograms.

"Here you are, sir: a functioning AGM-999X, a specialized biochemical model of the lightweight laser-guided missile. It's one we had prior to inserting its payload, we didn't have a demonstration model."

The minister smiled broadly. "On the contrary, this is fine," he assured him, peering over the buffed and polished missile with blue stabilizing fins. "Smaller than I expected."

"Well, sir, it can be carried by an attack aircraft or fired from a ten-tube launcher out a cargo aircraft door."

"I see," he said, putting arm over the colonel and walking him away from the missile. "Now, Colonel, I suspect that your positing here has given you a unique appreciation that a officer must sometimes do very difficult things in the interests of God and country."

The colonel looked at him oddly and opened his mouth to respond, but instead jolted violently while gagging. The minister released him and he toppled to the floor; behind him. Ms. Cynthia held a small electroshock gun concealed in a tube of lipstick.

"The CIA really does have the best little toys like this," the minister observed as his secretary put the weapon away and took ahold of the cart. The minister joined her and the two pushed the cart back into the previous chamber and against a series of narrow steel pipes marked with red arrow decals indicating they led to a special furnace intended to destroy biological weapons in their aerosol form.

The minister release the cart and stretched his back. "We should have another minute or so. That's the problem with skeleton staffs," he observed as Ms. Cynthia took out a single large grey block of plastic explosive from the rucksack she wore, planting it on the body of the missile, and then stabbing a handle-shaped detonator into it and flipping a number of switches.

"Is that correct, sir?"

"It looks about right," he said, glancing at her handiwork before reaching to the wall, yanking an open a glass cabinet, and pulling an alarm lever. The siren sounded and the pumps above them could be heard loudly cycling the aerosol from the outermost storage silos into the furnace for destruction, as indicated by all nearby monitors.

"I bet you'll never think of aerosol the same way," the minister muttered as he took a biochemical protection mask from a safety box near the lever. Ms. Cynthia did the same and they both donned their masks, then put a third one on the colonel, who was still twitching every few seconds.

"Will the aerosol make it to the surface?" Ms. Cynthia asked as the two left the room, alarms still blaring.

"Well, the air used for circulation has to be pumped in and pumped out somewhere. But it's sterilized thoroughly first." The minister took one last look at the underground lab as the lift doors closed. "Let's see if it can still do that after an explosion."

McKinley, pulling up the flank for the ground mobile suits, wasn't anywhere deep but near the muffled explosion that blew apart the air circulation system at Victory Mountain. She was scanning the few remaining hostiles in the area further up the mountain when a light on right-side back panel flashed, followed by a piercing tone. Like most pilots, McKinley had never seen that light go off, but she quickly remembered her training after a moment of shock.

Releasing her flight sticks, she reached between her legs and immediately donned her high-altitude oxygen mask, securing it over her mouth and nose and tightening the straps. The piercing alarm continued, indicating that the nuclear, biological, radiological and chemical detection system had detected a threat and automatically engaged the positive-pressure air filtration system built into the boron-lined cockpit compartment.

"Eagle 2-1 to all units, airborne pathogens detected! Please confirm!"

"_Acknowledged Eagle 2-1_," a nervous voice responded. "_Seems like it's coming from up the mountain! All units, fall back!_"

"Eagle 2-1 to Headquarters, suspect use of biological weapons by hostile forces. Can you confirm?" McKinley called out through her mask as the olive-drab Leos a few hundred meters up the mountain stopped firing.

**VI**

As the Langragian Congress picked up momentum, tens of millions viewers watched ESPAN-5's telecast over Network and satellite television, something Zayeed Winner hadn't counted on. Outside parliament, the demonstrators had increased in numbers while their behavior worsened. Haram's police held the barricade, increasingly on edge, as the occasional rock or bottle was tossed their way but fell short.

"In the vote to remove the OZ envoys from the congress: forty-four votes yay, sixty-seven votes nay. The measure fails," the speaker announced. Chernenko and Andretti took a moment to gloat quietly from their seats—at least Chernenko was doing his best to hide the fear from his face.

"Of course it failed! Your Honor, Mr. Winner, you yourself said your greatest accomplishment was negotiating colonial rights with the Alliance, and you want to eject Earth's current representatives? No wonder we've come to this…"

"You are speaking out of order!" the speaker barked at the snarky MP, who crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. "The next item on the agenda is the approval of Earth's proposed New Economic Policy. The representative from L4-V-311 has the floor."

The representative, another old man wearing a _pierce-nez_, stood. "Thank you. As you know, the New Economic Policy acknowledges the _de facto _economic independence the space colonies have already enjoyed since the departure of the Alliance military. It does, however, set the terms for normal trade relations with the nations of Earth through its various common markets, as currently exists on Luna. Luna has the legal right to regulate its trade with the nations of Earth, and the nations of Earth have a right to regulate their trade with Luna. The N.E.P. would extend that to situation to the colonies that approved of it. Common sense already tells us that unregulated, untaxed trade from Earth is hurting the colonies, and as profitable as it is, untaxed, unregulated trade from L4 is hurting the nations of Earth. At the moment, it is in our best interests to approve the proposed N.E.P., if only to combat the current instability that's leading to severe unemployment here, in my own colony, and elsewhere."

The representative sat down amid soft murmurs of begrudgingly agreement. Another MP raised a hand for permission to speak and was given it. He stood up, cleared his throat, and spoke in a deep voice. "Now, I respect the Winner Corporation's commitment to demilitarization in L4…"

There was some booing from the BACD-sympathetic MPs that was easily ignored.

"And while I do realize we have many unfinished issue still before us, I think we should seriously give consideration to Ambassador Une's proposal. The truth is L1 and L2, and many colonies in L3, are dependent on Earth either for food, cash, or both. The only way to overcome that dependency rapidly is the formation of a nation, like the Republic of Noventa in L1. And we've all seen what that entails," he said, shooting a suspicious glance in the direction of Andretti.

Another rose to his feet. "This is a waste of our time! We already _are _a nation, the Winner Corporation is our nation, and we don't need Earth's help! Anyone who stands in the way of that, including B-Area, should be swept aside as the threats they are! My colony will not give up independence for their whims!" he barked, just as his neighbor pulled him back to his seat, the gavel pounding from the podium.

"Order, order!"

The representative from L4-B-0940 stood up and anxious waved his arms. "I request the floor," he announced calmly, even reluctantly.

"You may proceed."

He wiped his brow, clearly a little rattled from earlier. "Putting aside the issue of political association, we need to contend with reality. My colony has almost thirty percent unemployment, and the reality is our economy is almost entirely aimed at military shipyards and large-scale construction. We're second behind the Haram resource satellite itself!" He sat down slowly and put his hands together. "But there's no colony construction in L4, and my colony doesn't have the pockets of the Winner Corporation to ease the burden or transform our entire economy."

"Because you bit the hand that fed you," Zayeed's aide muttered from his seat quietly.

The MP heard him and coughed. "Our unemployment was already at twenty-five percent when the BACD agreement was declared, regardless of your opinions. The Romefeller Foundation is offering large financial incentives, in the form of low-interest loans and leased ships from Earth's merchant marine, for us to resume military contracts. Without a path of future development, we won't survive."

Abruptly, Winner rose from the central podium. "And how do you gentlemen define future development? Why do you need arms for your own defense?" he asked, his voice booming through the auditorium.

"He thinks this is a manufactured crisis," Chernenko whispered to Andretti.

"Of course he does, what do you take me for?"

"Your Honor, we understand your concerns. But you have to understand we're in a dangerous strategic position," the representative replied carefully.

The representative of B-181's government-in-exile joined in. "And our citizens demand the right to be responsible for their own safety, independent of the region!"

"_Safety?!_" Zayeed bellowed, to the surprise of many. Behind him, the massive display screen turned to four images of different weapons: an orbital missile silo, a space fortress similar to _Barge_, and capital ship-grade defensive beam turrets on a colony superstructure ring. "All of you saw these weapons, then armed yourselves! How dare you use words like 'safety' and 'peace'!"

Andretti turned to Winner, an image of unimpressed calmness. "This colony's enormous wealth would not have been possible without the Winner Corporation, sir. But the prosperity of other colonies depends upon their citizenry, not just the Winner Corporation. Frankly, sir, I question the legitimacy of your corporate dictatorship," he goaded quietly.

"When have I been a dictator? I have only objected to OZ's interference so that we can maintain the peace here! If anyone is guilty of a dictatorship, it's you yourselves!" he snapped, pointing at them.

Chernenko blinked; Winner had fallen into Andretti's simple trap.

"Then why does the Winner Corporation deny the rights of the BACD, sir?" Andretti asked.

Winner lowered his arm, realizing the mistake he'd made. He had the authority to dodge the BACD question as much as he wanted to, courtesy of parliamentary procedure, but he had dug himself into a conversation he couldn't easily extract himself from. He looked at the faces of his supporters—even they were clearly having second thoughts. _I thought if I could remove OZ from the chamber, we could come to a solution. I couldn't, and now this has happened. _

"Your Honor, if that's true, will you respect our mandate from the 19 August general election?"

He didn't respond immediately, and a painful silence came over parliament. Chernenko could hear the sounds of protestors outside on the street.

"Sir?"

"No, I won't," he said calmly.

Another few seconds of silence before an older MP spoke, his voice almost breaking from emotion. "Your Honor, you are Haram's elected representative. You don't have exclusive control over every colony in L4."

"Please sir, let's cooperate and come to a fair arrangement for jurisdiction in the B-Area," one of Winner's supporters offered quickly. "Democracy should decide these things, not OZ or the even the Corporation! That isn't unreasonable, and it's clearly what the public expects of a democratic body like ours!"

Winner didn't reply.

The representative from B-0940 rose again. "May I speak?"

The speaker glanced at Winner, who seemed lost in thought. "The floor recognizes you."

"We of BACD have already drafted a constitution, and our government intends to take industrial incentives from Earth. We also intend to repulse A-235 from the colony it has occupied," he said, sounding a little ashamed before he quickly sat down.

Another MP spoke up. "Speaker, I know I don't have the floor, but I would like to propose a vote to request A-235's withdrawal from B-Area space without any unnecessarily punitive punishment. Then, at least, we can open the floor to debate about the New Economic Policy. It seems clear we're not going to get anything done so long as this 'BACD' organization continues like this."

Outside, in view of ESPAN-5's outdoor camera crew, a number of demonstrators refused to move out of the way of an advancing police van. In response, a riot policeman exited the vehicle, sub-machinegun strapped to his bulletproof vest, and sprayed the demonstrators with a large can of chemical mace. Now bright orange, the protestors dropped immediately. A number of nearby demonstrators rushed the officer, who was joined by his comrades and their grenade launchers.

As the demonstrators advanced on the police barricade, Quatre Raberba Winner, accompanied by his sister, scrambled through the crowd. The heavy weight of the conversation with his father had been replaced by a rising sense of dread—the Lagragian Congress, the B-Area Community, the ill-dressed protestors, none of them made remotely any sense in his worldview. Not in his wildest imagination could Quatre have comprehend this.

"No exclusive rights to the Winner Family!"

"Hurrah for OZ and the N.E.P.!"

"Haram belongs to us, the proletariat!"

"Stop persecuting BACD!"

The shouts disturbed and even terrified him—he'd known these protestors all his life, but they'd always been treated as the lunatic fringe, a problem dismissed by the Alliance. And just as importantly, they'd always hated one another as well. _I can't believe this! Marxists, anarchists, fundamentalists, social liberals, since when are they capable of marching together?_ "What are they going on about?" he asked when they reached a back alley.

"Public opinion's turned against us," his sister muttered. "Saying the Corporation's resource monopoly needs to end."

"That's absurd!"

"It _is _true we have such a monopoly, but we practically give away those resources for the public good!" she replied, sounding less than entirely convinced.

"But…everyone knows that! How is this happening?"

"People change, their feelings change. About you and about father," she admitted.

Quatre stared at his feet. "We were only doing the right thing."

The Lagrangian Congress got its vote, despite Winner's angrily quiet objections. Far worse was the vote they brought to the table, however: BACD's own voting bloc, which now include colonies threatened by A-235's aggressive behavior and his rivals in the capitalist world, was still too small to really move policy, especially for the two-thirds majority that the Lagrangian Congress required to overturn local colonial sovereignty or that of the Winner Corporation. Instead, the conspirators went for the throat.

"Issue fourteen—a vote to overturn the Alliance-era leases that gave the Winner Corporation unilateral authority over strategic industries and resources in L4, not including those it has direct ownership of. Strategic military industries held jointly by colonies, and by the Haram resource satellite, will be provisionally administered by OZ."

Zayeed hadn't believed it.

_The B-Area can't win a vote to end A-235's occupation. But a vote to end the corporation's monopoly over strategic industries and shipyards? I never thought they'd have the gall to try it, it wouldn't even help them! Would it?_

The chief speaker was looking at Zayeed, who seemed lost in his own thoughst, before turning back to his audience and watching the different voting blocs silently converse among themselves, debating what to do. "We'll commence a vote in five minutes."

Andretti remained at his seat; Chernenko ran for the door, barely disguising his haste, trying to find a place to privately call headquarters. When he found a secure telephone he scrambled into the room and contacted _Barge_, reading off his security code immediately.

"Am I clear? Connect me to Luna Armonia immediately! Tell her that L4 is about to take a vote!"

In the next few minutes, the parliamentarians finished their shuffling and the chamber quieted to vote on the resolution. Winner watched, his expression vacant, as one by one they voted to hand administrative control of L4's strategic industries over to OZ. With him abstaining, all representatives vote in favor. The BACD parliamentarians were ecstatic and ushered Andretti to the chamber floor to shake his hand in front of ESPAN's cameras.

"The vote is unanimous! This resource satellite is now under OZ's jurisdiction," ESPAN-5's correspondent declared.

"Congratulations, Lieutenant Andretti," B-0490's representative told him, clasping both his hands amid heavy applause. "With the seizure of L4's strategic industries, your organization may have made civil war here impossible. At least in the long run. Our independence will have to be recognized."

"I can't take credit," Andretti told him, smiling back. "That belongs to another officer. But the next step will be to do something about those militias occupying B-181. Now that Mr. Winner knows you're serious, he may actually cooperate. Speaking of which, where is His Honor?"

Outside, amid the exuberant demonstrators expressing their hopes for more favorable ownership terms of Haram's industrial wealth under OZ than the conglomerate they knew, Zayeed Winner silently climbed into his own armored limousine, his aide following a few steps behind.

"Sir! Sir! What about the congress?" the aide asked just in time to have the door close in his face. He knocked the tinted windows with both hands. "Sir! What about the congress? Forget the congress, what about your children? You were supposed to meet with your children!"

By now, Winner's aide was chasing the armored limousine as it departed through a gap in the police barricade.

**VII**

In New Castle at Ansembourg, Treize Khushrenada stood in his office, staring out the windows at the quiet forests that stretched to a nearby patch of farmland. As typical, he wore his uniform in formation, holding his gloved hands together behind his back.

"And where is it now?"

"_Being towed to our headquarters colony of C-102_," the shimmering faux-3D hologram of Lieutenant Colonel Armonia responded, also in full uniform, though the holograms limited color projection didn't capture the deep red of her coat. "_It'll still be a few hours before he arrives._"

"And then Lady Une will meet with the pilot personally?"

"_Yes, Your Excellency._"

"Good. That's what should be done."

Lady Soris paused. "_So we're not treating him as a traitor._"

Treize watched a flight of birds overhead. "No. If he says he's an ambassador for the Sanc Kingdom, we will respect that. It's not OZ's business to interfere in the diplomatic communications of sovereign nations, that much is clear." He turned to her. "Is that why you were sent to brief me? Instead of Une or North?"

Soris smiled at him tightly. "_Well, my understanding was that if OZ found Zechs in Outer Space, it'd be my duty to destroy him,_" she said, not concealing a certain pride in her voice. "_I won't say I wasn't looking forward to it_."

Treize couldn't resist smiling back at her. "Don't take this the wrong way, Soris, but warfare seems to give you a beautiful soul."

"_I'm flattered, Your Excellency_," she replied, daintily putting a gloves hand before her mouth in obvious jest.

"I don't believe you'll have your chance, not at the moment. I'm trusting Lady Une to handle Zechs Merquise or Millardo Peacecraft. The other staff officers will manage the fallout among the common officers and soldiers. They don't deserve to be disturbed by this."

"_That's very generous, Colonel._"

"Time isn't against us—_yet. _Soon, 'Citadel' will determine the future of all space colonies, and by extension, all of Earth Sphere. If that were OZ's final mission, it would be one worthy of all of our sacrifice." He turned away again slowly. "I expect you, and everyone, will do their duty."

She saluted stiffly. "Yes sir."

Behind him, the hologram flickered and disappeared as the connection ended. Treize relaxed his posture very slightly and frowned a little. _Perhaps that was too morose. The course the Foundation will take is still unclear. _Out of the corner of his eye, he could the progress reports coming out of Ruhr Valley, long lists of individual mobile weapon components being assembled in secrecy.

_There's still time. _

There was a beep from his desk. "_Your Excellency, there's a communique coming to you from _Barge."

"That would be the sister," he reflected softly, taking a seat at his desk.

Hundreds of thousands of kilometers away, at Haram, the situation had escalated nearly to violence. Police had opened fire with the more radical protestors, then at the demonstrators in general. For the time being, it was still limited to nonlethal weapons.

Inside the slave-rigged control room in Haram's ex-resource satellite section that only he had access to, Zayeed Winner manually toggled the twenty switches that allowed emergency separation from the colony central pillar.

"You won't be manufacturing weapons on this satellite," he muttered, pressing the failsafe switches. "I've prepared for this day, and now it's come."

Inside Haram, emergency bulkheads had snapped shut, to the fatal detriment of at least one unlucky laborer. Outside, fairings were jettisoned along the central pillar as the entire resource satellite slowly floated free on a few weak boosters, gradually putting distance between itself and the colony ring.

When word of what had happened reached parliament, the chief speaker gave up trying to keep order while the PMs began a mad scramble to prepare for total anarchy, or worse. Chernenko came running back into the legislature, just in time to discreetly punch Andretti in the arm.

"Ow!"

"What did I say? What did I say?" he hissed at his comrade. "First a police crackdown, now this!"

"Shut up, we were just following orders."

"What orders?" Chernenko snapped. "You _outrank _Luna Armonia, remember?" He took Andretti by the shoulders and shoved him towards Winner's podium. "Fix this!"

Saving his response for later, Andretti appeared calm and managed to get the attention of the chamber. "Gentlemen, please! Let's have some order here!" On the huge display behind him, view was relayed of half of Haram floating away from a exterior feed, giving him an idea. "It appears Mr. Winner has revealed his true intent. He's prepared to sacrifice this colony's economic future for his own political position!" he shouted across the chamber.

"So what now, gentlemen? Does it seem Mr. Winner will stop at this? And how will we respond?" he announced, calling out a nervous looking man in a suit near the front of the chamber. "If there are no objections, we must take all necessary measures to protect the sovereignty and prosperity of this colony!"

"Isn't that correct, Vice Representative?" he asked, putting him on the spot.

"Well, I…"

A young man, younger than Andretti and without the mustache, stood up in the austere everyday uniform of a Colonial militia officer. "Sirs! I'm sorry to interrupt, but this is clearly a rapidly escalating crisis and Haram must be placed on alert." He scanned the chamber very deliberately, stopping at the nervous Vice Representative. "This is no longer the time or place for democracy. Those who lack the ability to lead should leave this chamber and make way for those who do."

The Vice Representative stared at the military officer, swallowed nervously, and nodded. "Issue a general alert. Evacuate the neighboring space. Open a line to the resource satellite, and arm our defensive network." He looked at Andretti stiffly. "I thank OZ's envoys for their assistance, but their military presence will not be the solution in this case. _We _have the solution."

Andretti ran a gloved hand over his collar. "Of course. I completely defer to your defense department. If you gentlemen will excuse me for a moment." Andretti left the podium and approached Chernenko, who stood along the wall next to a Mobile Suit Troops officer still wearing his normal suit.

"Where are we with our own forces?"

"Sir, the rest of the flight's out at the last defense perimeter, opposite the resource satellite's escape trajectory."

"Good, keep them there. Chernenko?"

Chernenko held the military band transmitter set, about the size of a large piece of luggage and held by the junior officer by a shoulder strap, flipped the switch and held a headset towards Andretti. He wore another headset himself. "Listen to this."

"_Father, you need to—this won't solve anything! They're coming after you!_"

Zayeed's voice responded. "_Are you telling me to sit back while OZ seizes the colony? This isn't—mistake!_"

"_Father!_"

"Who's the other speaker?"

"Some girl in a shuttle that just departed the colony, Sentry 1-3 is tracking her," Chernenko told him. "It must be one of his daughters."

"Do we know which one?" Andretti asked, straining his ears.

"How could we? He's got a whole company of them."

Andretti shushed him again as he listened.

"_Quatre, promise me that you won't go to war again! Promise me—_" a grainy voice said before being consumed in static.

"Can we clean this up at all?" Andretti asked. Chernenko shook his head as the gavel pounded past them at the podium.

"The resource satellite is not responding to any of our hails, but we've confirmed the evacuation of the industrial crews on it," the militia officer announced, still holding his handset. "It's still moving under its power, if we wait much longer, we may not be able to disable it!"

He spoke into the handset. "This is parliament. Arm all batteries, target the resource satellite."

Andretti was about to return to the podium when he felt Chernenko's hand on his shoulder, holding him back. The other lieutenant shook his head steadily, as the video on the main display showed Haram's beam weaponry lining up on the resource satellite and charging to full power. Then they fired.

**VIII**

"The mobile suit factory at L3-X-18999 could produce, at most, between four and five hundred 'Serpent' mobile suits in a period of one year," he explained. "The mobile weapons it would carry would, of course, be manufactured at larger complexes much more quickly, probably on Luna or Earth. With those weapons, the Serpent would be a more than adequate replacement to our front-line mobile suit, the 'Leo'. However, even operating alongside the Leo, I doubt we'll see the Serpent deployed in any number during our campaign against D-120."

Walker swept his finger across the tablet computer, and the display behind him changed to match. "By contrast, the prototypes for the production Gundams, Vayeate and Mercurius, suffered no damage during their combat trials, and their combat computers have supplied us with a huge amount of useful data. Actual production units could be operational, in limited quantities, in time for 'Citadel'."

Une leaned back in her reclining office chair, touching her chin. "Production Gundams," she mumbled softly.

Walker waited cautiously until she looked at him. "Continue."

"Yes, ma'am. Development on the unmanned mobile doll 'Virgo' on Luna is progressing, but is not much farther than that of the Serpent. More than twenty chassis have been completed, but according to the design team…"

"Tubarov Villemont," Une added.

"Yes, ma'am, according to Colonel Villemont, progress has stalled over finding weapons and exterior equipment that can be used by his new mobile combat software. No date has been given for field or combat trials." He paused again, changing the screen. "As I mentioned early in my report, the non-production models on Earth—the mobile armor, the electronic warfare unit, and so forth—are all still in early development phase."

The screen in Une's office dimmed and Walker turned back to Une. "That concludes my report on ongoing OZ mobile weapon development."

"It wasn't difficult, was it?"

_No, Colonel Une, it wasn't difficult, except for the part where I had to hike across the surface of the Moon for a few hours and infiltrate our own production center. Because my own commanding officer asked for a detailed report on mobile suit development while simultaneously concealing her employment of captured enemy researchers, which I believe, ma'am, is the military criteria for insanity. _"No, ma'am, not particularly."

"As it shouldn't be. This is OZ, not the Alliance." She took the printed copy of the report Walker had given her and set it inside a desk drawer, closing it.

_Of course not. _Walker tried to maintain his face's trademark neutrality while Une put her gloved hands together and leaned towards him with a menacing smile.

"Flight Lieutenant, you saw the combat data from Mercurius and Vayeate?"

"Yes, Colonel."

"What were you thoughts on their performance?"

"Excellent, ma'am. Particularly in regards to their performance in tandem and their individual reaction times." _And if you ask me to compose a report on who was accompanying Barton, or why they destroyed an entire flight of our own mobile dolls, ma'am, I will probably have to apply for a permanent residency pass on Luna. _

"And what about their target, Tallgeese? You were there for the entire interception."

"Yes, Colonel, but unfortunately, I can't comment on Tallgeese's current performance."

Une's smile vanished and she narrowed her eyes under her eyeglasses. "And why is that?"

"Because even if I presided over the restoration of the unit—assuming it is the same mobile suit—I'm not familiar with the pilot, my lady," he told her plainly.

Clenching his fist behind his back, Walker braced himself for a tongue lashing for verbally preempting the commander-in-chief of Space Forces, his mind focused on trying not to betray any feelings of despair.

Une's response wasn't what he expected. "Would you like to meet the pilot?"

"No, ma'am," he said, a little too fast, feeling his face redden.

Une kept staring at him for a few more painful seconds before her desk emitted a beep.

"_My Lady, Flight Officer Armonia is here to brief you on L4._"

"Send her in." Une looked back at him. "You're dismissed, Walker."

"Thank you ma'am," he said, still holding his breath. He didn't exhale until after he'd passed Luna Armonia, saluting him, on the way out. Once he was alone in the hallway, he did so, only to sound like a balloon being deflated in stages. He bobbed in the very low gravity in the hallway outside Une's office, trying to regain his composure. Losing track of time, Walker kept drifting there until a voice addressed him and he felt himself almost gagging, his facial expression resetting.

"Lieutenant Walker."

Propping himself against the wall, he turned. "Ms. Armonia. You already finished your briefing?" he asked.

"Are you all right, sir?" she asked without any discernable empathy.

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm just tired. I need to rest." He glanced away, pulling his cap off his head. "Sometimes…sometimes I feel like I've been going a little crazy since I came to Outer Space," he admitted.

Luna said nothing, staring at him with her large, unblinking brown eyes. "You don't seem well, sir. Let me take you to a medic."

Walker tried to laugh it off. "No, I'm fine, I just need some rest."

"No you're not, sir," Luna replied, sounding a bit more insistent. "You're very much not 'fine'. I would know."

"And why is that?" he asked, incredulously, wondering how red his face still was.

To his surprise, Luna floated herself over to him, staring right into his eyes. "Because I've seen your symptoms in soldiers in the past," she told him quietly. "Soldiers who lost their war."

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author's Notes:<br>_**

_Once again, another chapter longer than anticipated (and longer in production that I originally hoped as well). Things are beginning to fall apart for Walker, which is to be expected, right? Perhaps more importantly, I wonder if this chapter managed to adequately explain just what happened in L4 and caused Quatre's father to be killed. We never hear about L4 again, but presumably, there was no military campaign there until the White Fang rose up (and maybe not even after that). But despite this, somewhere in L4, Quatre manufactures his new nightmare weapon, Wing Gundam Zero, in complete secrecy. To me, that sounds like a compromise on all parties, including the Winner Corporation (which Quatre now controls in the place of his father)._

_Of course, this isn't a story about Quatre, it's about OZ (though it's sometimes hard to tell). We're actually not very far from the Treize's resignation from commander-in-chief of OZ and the ensuing civil war that results from that. In the meantime though, expect the long overdue siege of D-120, and a return of more than a few Gundam pilots to captivity. _


	36. The Fight for Independence

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 36 – The Fight for Independence**

Concealed by curtains, Ambassador Une stood in the dark recesses just off the main stage of L1-A-232's colonial legislature, joined by Flight Officer Nichol. Both were waiting for the colony's representative to finish his enthusiastic introduction of OZ's Commander-in-Chief of Space Forces.

"Andretti and Chernenko both joined Luna Armonia in advising _against _using the Winner Resource Satellite. The ground situation is too unstable, literally and figuratively."

"We'll need another location for the block construction," Une replied calmly.

"Thanks to the N.E.P., there must be plenty of suitable alternatives," Nichol offered, as clapping signaled it was Une's time to take the podium. The screen behind her showed captured video of OZ's anti-Alliance operations in other colonies.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the time for Colonial independence is now! For too long colonial citizens have been forced to live as second class citizens by the greed of the Earth Alliance. Why should you break your backs creating new worlds in space, only to fill the coffers of corrupt governments on Earth? Now is the time for action! Stand up and resist! Resist the U.E.S.A. occupation!"

The crowd roared its support as Une continued. "OZ supports you! Together, we'll create a new vision of life in Outer Space! A new future! Accept OZ's hand in support and embrace a new era of peace and prosperity!"

The rhetoric, more fiery than Une's usual oratory, was an immediate success, as many rose for a standing ovation. In particular, towards the front row, one suit-wearing colonial delegate was practically jumping.

"Hurray for OZ!"

"Long live Treize Khushrenada!"

"Down with the U.E.S.A.!"

"What do we want? Peace! When do we want it? Real soon!"

The jumping delegate raised a fist. "Your Excellency! As the elected representative of MO-V, I formally announce our support for OZ's independence movement! The people of MO-V want their independence and by joining OZ, we can ensure that freedom for our children! We will join OZ and fight for our future!"

The excited Representative Herman enjoyed applause from his neighbors, even as the two other members of his delegation stood by quietly, holding their smiles. Une met up with Nichol as they stepped down to the floor began whispering briefly.

"What about MO-V?"

"That may be doable. Shall I contact to the Jupiter Fleet?"

"Do that. I'll speak with their representative personally," she told him as they parted again.

Nichol nodded and discreetly, but visibly, began writing something on the back of a business card he'd taken from a colony congress deputy earlier with a tiny pen. "At this rate, there might not even be a delay."

"No. OZ doesn't put up with delays."

**II**

"Something…unfortunate…occurred to me this morning during breakfast."

Dr. Arai, a petite woman in her twenties in a hunter green service uniform under a white lab coat, the typical attire for OZ medical service personnel on _Barge_, sat with her legs crossed on her office chair. Sitting uncomfortably in front of her was Flight Lieutenant Walker, his hands squeezing the armrests of the patient's chair of her office.

"Go ahead, sir."

Walker replayed the event in his mind while describing it: he'd been waiting in line in main cafeteria for breakfast at 0800 hours, accompanied by Flight Officers Kaneshiro and Mazuri, and Pilot Officer Bishop. Instead of 'Citadel', everyone was talking about the same thing: the appearance of Millardo Peacecraft. The four of them ignored it instead, particularly Kanna, who was taking her time at the beverage counter.

_"I don't think it's the same guy,"_ a Mobile Suit Troops officer had informed his neighbor. _"No one's seen it yet, how do you know it's the same guy?"_

_"Would anyone care if it wasn't the same man?"_ the other had immediately countered. _"Something damn strange is going on right now, that much is certain."_

The first one shook his head. _"Back me up here,"_ he asked another officer. _"Zechs Merquise is dead, right? He died fighting the Alliance in the Indian Ocean, didn't he?"_

_"Well, yes,"_ she acknowledged. _"That's what was in all the papers."_

_"That's another thing: am I the only one who thinks it's a little strange that Zechs Merquise was arrested for treason, and before the trial finished, he's killed in action?"_

_"It's a little strange,"_ she admitted.

_"The brass probably wanted to spare all of us the pain of watching a drawn-out trial,"_ another officer had then stated, sitting down at the table with his tray in hand. _"Bad for morale."_

_"Or Zechs Merquise isn't really dead,"_ the first officer offered. _"And he's right there, at C-102, devising some plan to fuck OZ a second time. How the mighty have fallen, haven't…"_ The officer as cut off by a loud _popping _noise, and then everyone was looking at Walker.

_"…they?"_

Walker didn't realize what he'd done until he looked down and found he'd squeezed the plastic can of orange juice he was holding so hard it had burst, getting most of it on Dac's uniform. Walker didn't even remember grabbing the can in the first place.

"That was a little unseemly," Walker muttered softly. The bio-medical sensors next to his chair relayed his mental state, illustrating his every twitch and tension on the adjacent display.

"You mean embarrassing?" Arai asked.

"And that."

Arai glanced at Walker's medial chart, twirling a pencil in her left hand.

"I'm sure my history is indicative of why I might have had that reaction," Walker confessed. Arai just nodded, her short bob hair shifting slightly. She had a hairstyle that reminded Walker of Ogasawara's nonflying adjutant, but without the clearly-cut bangs. Arai was also several years older, at least.

"I'm…a little uncomfortable discussing this."

"Flight Lieutenant, do you have any family?" she asked.

"My mother lives in North America. My sister is also in the Space Forces."

She did that same nod again, jotting something on his chart that he couldn't see. Resting his hands anxious in his laps, Walker waited for her to say something else, feeling more intimidated now than before.

"Your blood work and physical examination suggest fairly severe overworking, even on first alert scheduling," she told him finally. "You may also be suffering from a common and mild form of _psychoneurosis_."

Walker looked visibly distressed. "Excuse me, 'psychoneurosis'?"

"A mental condition not caused by delusions or hallucinations, wherein your demonstrated behavior is still sociably acceptable. Given your background in the Mobile Suit Troops, and the current situation in Outer Space, I'm going to recommend your flight in Squadron One be put on semi-active status and you personally be given some lighter fare that would preferably take you away from L1 for no less than a week."

"Great," Walker replied, sounding dismayed.

"As I am a _military_ psychiatrist, and you only came here on the expressed orders of your commanding officer, I'm sure Colonel North will be amenable to the suggestion. The alternative is I prescribe you a psychoactive drug that you take regularly from now on."

Walker looked at her blankly.

"Take the working vacation, Flight Lieutenant."

"Right," he said quietly.

Dr. Arai sighed. "Psychiatry has been around for almost five hundred years, and people still don't want to talk to their counselors," she muttered to either herself or Walker, he couldn't tell which. "I want you to have another appointment in a week's time, or as soon as possible after that. Is that clear?"

"Very clear."

"Good."

She uncrossed her legs and stood up. "Also make sure to get a good night's sleep. Do you drink or smoke?"

"No, not recently."

She set Walker's chart down on her desk authoritatively. "Maybe you should consider it."

"Excuse me?"

"Get more sleep, Flight Lieutenant."

"I will, Doctor."

Walker meekly dismissed himself, giving Dr. Arai a moment to herself. She removed her coat, stretched her arms above her head, and reached down to touch the toes of her boots when the speaker on the wall beeped.

"_Dr. Arai, your next patient is here_," a man's voice informed her.

Arai sighed, arching her back quickly, and reached for the nearby shelf, taking another medical chart. "First Lieutenant Sieben Hopkins. Go ahead."

"_I'll wheel him in immediately, ma'am._"

**III**

At his office in New Castle in Ansembourg, a display urgently alerted Treize Khushrenada of UESA Military Space Forces movements in the area of the First Lagrange Point, towards Earth. They were not yet in reach of the orbital defense network, however, and there was not much to distinguish them from the Alliance's typical posturing.

With his adjutant nearby, Treize read the letter topping a stack sitting on his desk.

**My dear Mrs. and Mr. Yao,**

**The knowledge that one of your twin sons is missing in action against the enemy while another has become victim of this shocking biological weapon attack in the Republic of Utah has moved me to contact you personally. I realize fully there is little I can say to assuage your grief and anxiety.**

**As Commander-in-Chief of the combined Terrestrial and Extraterrestrial Military Forces of the Order of the Zodiac, I want you to know that the whole of Earth Sphere shares in your sorrow. I offer you the condolences and the gratitude of our Earth. We who remain to carry on the fight must remain strong and resilient, with the knowledge that sacrifices like this have not been made in vain.**

**The Mobile Suit Troops General Staff has informed me that your twin sons requested to serve in the same military unit, the 40****th**** Canadian Victorian Cross Airborne Battalion, and I know we all take heart in the knowledge that they fought shoulder to shoulder. As your son Shun wrote, "Together we are unbeatable." We should never forget that spirit.**

**You have given two sons to the Order of the Zodiac, in a tremendous act of patriotism and sacrifice, and it serves as a genuine inspiration for both myself and, I believe, all Earthlings. Such strength demonstrates the unshakable resolve and spirit of mankind. **

**I offer you my deepest sympathy in this trying hour and pray that in the Almighty God you will find comfort and health.**

**Very sincerely yours,**

_T. Khushrenada _

**Treize Khushrenada, Count of Nuenburg, KCRF**

MACR Serrati stood at attention as His Excellency signed the letter with a pen and was about to methodically put it on the pile to his right when he paused and stared at it for another second instead.

"Something about that letter, Your Excellency?" Serrati asked.

"More so than most. These parents had two sons in Utah, one in the Mobile Suit Troops, another in the Combat Engineer Corps." He took another letter and carefully signed it. "One was listed missing in action outside of New Jerusalem. The other, three hours later, was injured in the bio-weapon attack and may not survive, much less recover."

He gave a short, restrained sigh. "There are not enough hours in the day to sign all of these," he reflected somberly.

"I'm sure they're appreciated, Your Excellency."

Treize took a moment to respond. "I think Sylvia Noventa didn't appreciate the one sent to her."

Serrati gratefully didn't have to respond, thanks to the large display on the wall emitting a tone. One of the many red elliptical orbits between Earth and L1, had shifted apparently shifted, indicating that an ex-Alliance unit was on the move. A second later, the telephone on the desk just past the door rang. Serrati jumped at it, answering.

"Thank you." He hung up. "Your Excellency, an Alliance unit is on course for the western hemisphere, over continental North America."

"How many capital ships?" Treize asked calmly.

"Just one, Your Excellency."

He raised an eyebrow. "Only one?"

**IV**

"Madame Defense Minister!"

Counter Admiral Arroway, resting her head on one of her hands, glanced at the direction of her XO, a tall, muscular Alliance Space Navy commander in a black tunic whom had served her for nearly a decade.

"Our course is laid out. Estimated time to next maneuver is two-hundred minutes."

"Lowest altitude?" she asked leisurely.

The XO checked a nearby computer display, which now showed the countdown of three hours and twenty minutes. "Estimated periapsis will be four-hundred and five kilometers."

Arroway waited another moment, dangling her folded fan by its gold lanyard, then glanced at a display immediately ahead of her. On the monitor, the course of CVA-40 at its closest approach to Earth was highlighted in contrast to OZ's defensive units and the projected position of _Barge _in its orbit. At its periapsis, the EASFS _Africana _would be at phase angle of 162° relative to the fortress's circular orbit, and far underneath it.

She abruptly stood up, causing her XO to stand at attention. "Alert all positions: assume battle stations at once!" she shouted, gesturing with her fan like a marshal's baton. "Begin Operation 'Dunkirk'!"

"Yes ma'am! All stations, full alert!"

Arroway ran her gloves along her long cloak "ECM at full power. All communications will be conducted by point-to-point datalink only."

"Aye aye, ma'am," the comm officer announced.

Leisurely, she crossed the red carpet under her 'throne', standing by her XO. "Prepare the 'package' for deployment."

"It already is, Defense Minister."

"Excellent."

Orbiting at less than a twentieth of _Barge_'s altitude, just outside the atmosphere, were the hundreds of small, solar-powered space stations and satellite outposts OZ had inherited from the UESA, the command posts for Earth's defensive network. With only a dozen or so personnel each, each station shared the gargantuan task of monitoring all traffic in and out of the thermosphere.

"At least one deep space carrier, likely _Europa-_class. Their ECM is likely concealing other smaller picket ships," a recon officer announced from his post.

His CO turned himself in the low gravity with a handrail. "Use our datalink with all neighboring outposts and satellites to try and clean up the sensor readings. And contact the nearest fleet!"

"EBC-31 is approximately forty-thousand kilometers away, but isn't making any course corrections, sir."

"The _Over the Rainbow _will need another day to change its course. Anything else?"

"Defensive Taskforce No. 11 incoming," another officer announced. "ETA one-hundred and seventy minutes." The taskforce's position appeared on the displayed map. In the middle of a long burn, two _Titan-_class cruisers in dark grey OZ colors with white stripes were surrounded by three small destroyer escorts, an upgunned _Los Angeles-_class fast cruiser, and a _Fēiyú Yī_-class destroyer pulling up the rear.

"Seven ships total. Cruisers are the _Enceladus _and the _Rhea_," Arroway's XO announced.

Arroway didn't bother hiding the smirk appearing on her face. "The _Rhea_. What a funny coincidence."

At the opposite end of the bridge, behind the helm, one office leaned towards another. "Did the _Rhea…_?"

"Affirmative. One of the cruisers that destroyed Vice Admiral Arroway's command ship, the _Calypso_," he whispered back.

"Those two cruisers are the only thing we need to worry about," a senior officer announced from behind Arroway.

"All the same, have Soletta deploy. OZ is overdue for a bloody nose."

In an OZ-06SMS 'Space Leo' mobile suit, Captain Soletta checked her helmet's magnetic seals and moved her machine into position. Her Leo carried the standard beam rifle, but its booster pack had been modified with four long propellant tanks extending out from it behind her. She stood in front of the port catapult hatch just in time for it to open up and reveal a crowded starfield.

"_Weapons restrictions lifted, Sabre Leader. Good hunting_," a metallic voice told her in her helmet.

Her mobile suit's right manipulator grasped the catapult rail extended from the carrier's hull, and its right fixed itself into the rail below her. "_Sabre Leader, ready to launch!_"

In unison, the two anchors yanked her forwards and threw her free into space. The process was repeated on the starboard side with a more conventional violet Pioneer Leo armed with a missile launcher. In rapid succession, the _Africana _deployed ten further mobile suits from its massive hangar.

"_Sabre Leader to all callsigns_," she announced over point-to-point transmission. "_Maintain tight formation along my vector. And watch for the signal._"

"_Sabre 1-1, what signal are we going to be getting in the middle of radio silence?_" Sabre 1-3 asked nervously.

"_You'll know it when you see it, Lieutenant._"

On the _Africana_, the large hangar door on the central bow swung open and extended the center catapult outwards. Within a few seconds of the catapult lights coming on, a one-use carriage shot out of the hangar on a few boosters. When it cleared the carrier by a half-kilometer, the carriage split apart and a rectangular utility craft loaded with twelve large container continued under its own power. Ten second later, the craft shed its containers all at once.

"What the hell are those?" the space station officer asked.

His commander's eyes widened. "Shit, missile pods! Retarget the defensive cannons!"

Even as he gave this order, the containers split open and poured out a dozen small and maneuverable guided missiles each. Soon, 144 small missiles rained upon the space station and its neighboring satellites and automated turrets. The utility craft continued for a few more seconds, before exploding in a blinding but harmless spectacle.

"That's the signal!" Soletta announced, checking her sensor readout on one of her MFDs. A section of Earth's defensive satellite network, a rough circle about 400 kilometers wide, was either destroyed or crippled.

"Package successfully deployed," Arroway's XO announced. "Almost ninety-percent of the missiles found their targets."

"Save the details for the military journals," Arroway said, visibly holding back laughter. "Have Soletta clear the field of any surviving outposts and watch for interceptors. Their best time from Earth to this altitude is a half-hour."

"Yes ma'am."

Using visual targeting, over the next few minutes Soletta's violet Pioneer Leos made short work of the unarmed space stations and lightly armed automated turrets, already hurting from the missile attack. Daringly, Sabre 1-1 appeared directly in front of a space station's primary cupola before firing a single beam at under a dozen meters, killing everyone in the section instantly.

Arroway stood near the front of the bridge. "By now, they must know exactly what's going on. Our ECM makes Strategic Rocketry's surface-launched missiles useless without observational guidance. Their orbital silos could be more effective, but OZ can hardly lob dozens of nuclear missiles half-blind at this altitude."

"So hypersonic interceptors are their best option, ma'am?"

"From Earth, yes," Arroway replied, her eyes glancing at the course of the defensive taskforce and the associated countdown timer. "Don't underestimate the power of a nuclear torpedo carried by a forty-tonne fighter going fifteen thousand meters a second."

"Yes ma'am."

"_Area is secure!_" Saber 1-1 announced after turning to directly face the carrier, the emitter tip of her beam rifle still glowing.

"Acknowledged, Sabre Leader. Optics, what do you see?" a helm officer asked.

The _Africana'_s potent optic telescope, built into the top of the conning tower, remained unaffected by the ECM. "Multiple objects spotted, bearing eight-eight, forty, minus eighty-three! Counted thirteen so far. Profile matches H.L.V.s!"

Arroway turned sharply and pointed her fan out. "All ships, commence the rescue of the H.L.V. escaping from Earth! Combat engineers, deploy and begin operation! Sabre unit, cover and assist rescue units!"

"_Affirmative, Counter Admiral!_"

With OZ rapidly closing in, Arroway's small force moved to rendezvous with the field of rising H.L.V.s rising up from Earth. Expressions of amazement and wonderment dominated the faces of those on the bridge, excluded those of the admiral and her executive officer.

"We've just been pinged by a high-speed bogey, heading one-seventy," a sensors officer announced.

"Looks like the ECM isn't perfect ma'am," the XO growled.

She gave a low chuckle. "It did its job, Commander," she told him, turning around and strolling back to her seat. "Alert all anti-aircraft batteries, and signal the troops."

From a small, inconspicuous launcher on the dorsal armor plating of the coning tower, the _Africana _fired a single flare, leaving a bright red streak across the stars. Soletta's Pioneers spotted it immediately and regrouped.

"_Two OZ interceptors, heading one-sixty!_"

As Sabre 2-1 had warned, two Shenyang orbital interceptors—massive but sleek the size of small strategic bombers that rode solid boosters into orbit—closed in, each armed with a powerful nuclear missile. Within a minute, they fired both missiles and broke off away from incoming fire.

"Hard to port, full power," Arroway ordered, her eyes rapidly moving between the two missiles as they began to veer apart on the sensor display. "Deploy countermeasures!"

"Aye aye, ma'am! Deploying countermeasures," an officer shouted as the two helmsmen in front of him carefully twisted their control yokes. The view of outer space through the forward display began to tilt and turn.

In her cockpit, Soletta swung her machine around and began firing in the direction of the nearest missile, along with the other Pioneers. They kept firing as the missile tore right through a field of the furthest heavy lift vehicles and exploded against one of the picket ships, splitting the keel in half and flinging the dual ECM pods away in a single blinding explosion.

"Direct impact on the _Triton, _she is sunk!" a bride officer shouted. "Our ECM is lost!"

"Missile impacting in ten…nine…eight…" another counted down as Arroway clenched her jaw and squeezed her fan with one hand and her armrest with another.

"…four…three…two…!"

**V**

Walker's reassignment came promptly, as Dr. Arai had told him it would. He was saying his goodbyes, leaving Kaneshiro Kanna in charge temporarily after she gave him a friendly but overpowering hug. Bishop and Mazuri were less physical, settling on long handshakes.

Kanna snickered at them. "Don't be so emotional. The boss will be back before we drop the hammer on D-120, right _Taichō_?"

Walker finished a long, slightly awkward handshake with Dac before answering. "Yes, I will. I've never been one to pass up making history."

Kanna grinned triumphantly, causing Mazuri to shake his head and adjust his glasses. "In the meantime, F/L, try and get some rest before the hunt is on."

"Yeah, don't let them overwork you," Dac added.

"Thank you, I will." He gave them his best smile before floating up to the transport shuttle. His three subordinates watched him vanish through the hatch, which was shut shortly after by ground crew.

"You think he will?" Kanna asked finaly.

"I think it's a fifty-fifty split. It depends on what they're having him work on," Mazuri surmised.

Dac gave an authoritative cough. "I've known Oswald Walker longer than anyone here, longer than anyone on _Barge_. If he's at the end of his rope, it's for a good reason, I know that much." He gave both of them an almost commanding glance and marched off, head held high.

Kanna and Mazuri watched him. "What do you make of that?" she asked, cocking her head.

"I think he needs to get laid," Mazuri stated resolutely. By the time he turned back, Kanna had already strolled off, hands over her head. "Come now, Kanna, you're supposed to ask which one I meant!"

Walker's flight was uneventful, and he spent most of it watching the monitor in the front of the cabin display the shuttle's elliptical orbit from Earth to the outermost fringes of the Second Lagrange Point and their destination: the most distant of the active resource satellites.

"Have you heard anything about MO-V, Flight Lieutenant?" a voice asked from the aisle. After recognized it, Walker smiled and turned.

"Actually, no, I have not, Lieutenant Sernan."

Smiling back at him in the mostly-empty shuttle cabin was Second Lieutenant Ron Sernan of OZ's Engineering Corps, who saluted cheerfully. Walker returned it and beckoned him to sit down next to him.

"That doesn't surprise me."

"Have you?"

He crossed his arms. "Only that it's home to an old MS sub-contractor employed by the Alliance and that they kept a low profile until this most recent contract from OZ."

"If money didn't talk, I suppose the Romefeller Foundation wouldn't be so central to the body politic," he pointed out. When Sernan didn't respond, Walker glanced at him and elbowed him gently. "Anything else? About MO-V."

"No, not really. Do you know what we're doing in MO-V?"

Walker thought about it. "No. I assumed it was restarting mobile suit production, possibly retooling factories. Since I worked at Corisca, I've been called in for that in the past."

"That would make sense," Sernan admitted. "Nichol didn't tell me anything either, just that we'd be briefed when we were there."

"Mobile suit production would make sense to explain the secrecy. Have you seen the reports on Mercurius and Vayeate? I was kept out of that at _Barge_."

"It would make sense."

Walker tried to relax his posture in his fairly plush seat. "I guess we'll just have to wait to find out."

**VI**

In L1-C-102, Flight Officer Nichol took another look at the business card he'd scribbled notes on previously. The negotiations with Representative Herman had gone smashingly thanks to Une, even if Nichol personally wasn't in favor of delegating like this.

_Still, 'Bliznets' is a top priority. We can hardly argue with the World Congress demanding results when they're bankrolling the whole thing. _He tore the business card into tiny shreds. _Or the Romefeller Foundation, rather. _

He had other, bigger problems on his mind though. He'd heard Walker had been sent out, and he envied him a little.

Lady Une had returned from the summit at L1-A-232 in time to meet 'Ambassador Millardo Peacecraft', envoy of the Sanc Kingdom. The same Millardo Peacecraft who'd been found in the operational but supposedly _missing _prototype, OZ-00MS 'Tallgeeese'.

"Survey _strongly _suggests that it's _not _a duplicate," a junior officer explained, looking up from his report. "The quality of the repairs looks excellent, most likely done by someone with experienced the unit in the past."

_Well, that narrows it down. _"Very interesting." He glanced at his watch. "It'll be towed in by now. Let's keep our distinguished colonial delegates on track."

Accompanied by the officer, Nichol calmly strolled into the traffic control level for C-102's massive central hangar. He immediately recognized the half-dozen civilian representatives who had asked for, and been granted, access to the situation, including Representative Nguyen.

"Sirs!" he announced confidently, interrupting their muttering. "I'll remind you that military weapon was used against OZ on Earth. We will be conducting a thorough inspection of the unit."

"Of course," Nguyen said, missing his trademark glasses. He was as surprised as anyone. "And Lady Une?"

"Look for yourself, sir."

A short-range shuttlecraft had brought Une into the hangar, which filled with CAST personnel in their dress uniforms after it was sealed and re-pressurized. Waiting at Tallgeese's feet, she watched the mobile suit's cockpit door fall open and the hatch slide up, and a man her age in blindingly white royal regalia floated down to the floor.

Une waited for him to speak first, which he did, his voice picked up on sensitive microphones. "I think I'll get to the point, Madame Ambassador. The new political system that has arisen since OZ has united with the colonies has had considerable influence on Earth. On behalf of my nation, I've come to Outer Space to understand this situation."

"Your nation…?" Une asked in her careful, harmless manner.

"That's correct. I've come here from the Sanc Kingdom. My name is Millardo Peacecraft."

This didn't mean much to the delegates above. Nichol just put a hand to his head, shaking it repeatedly.

"Oh my. His Excellency, the commander-in-chief of OZ, has had ties with the Sanc Kingdom since his youth. I understood your nation was recovering from wars, Mr. Ambassador."

He nodded very slightly. "I understand that many colonies are pursuing military advancement. Since I understand the implications of war, I thought I could advise them in some way."

Une's expression hadn't changed. "There are many ways to obtain peace for one's nation. I think you'll find that our methods are among the best."

"Then will you allow me to act on my own accord while I'm in Outer Space?"

"Of course, Your Excellency."

He seemed a little pleased. "You might be on the right track to peace, Ambassador Une."

Nichol resisted the urge to kick the cheap furniture in the control room. "Peacecraft? That's what he calls himself now? Let him, he's still Zechs Merquise, OZ's greatest traitor and murderer of his own men!"

**VII**

As promised, OZ did not detain the Sanc Kingdom's envoy for long. Everything they needed to determine from his mobile suit was found out in a matter of minutes, and he was released on his way with the fuel he needed, a gift from OZ's extraterrestrial commander-in-chief.

Space Colony L1-D-120. Home to the United Earth Sphere Alliance Armed Forces Headquarters. Even as OZ encouraged the forming of a colonial nation in Outer Space, instead of a government forced by Earth. Its government continued to view itself as the legitimate political and military voice of Earth in Outer Space, and maintained the functions and institutions associated with it.

As with any colony, D-120 had an elected representative: Gwinter Septim, son of the former commander-in-chief of Alliance Space Forces. The ex-Alliance leadership, as OZ labeled them, associated with him remained deeply troubled by the actions of ostensibly neutral colonies seeking independence with OZ backing.

In a colony surrounded by minefields and other defenses, in the most militarized area of Outer Space, D-120's Supreme Military Council met. In effect the colony's legislature, Gwinter Septim III briefed his fellow councilors to the situation.

All around him, the senior-most active members of the officer corps, including the Alliance General Staff, sat in three concentric rings of seats, their uniforms forming a sea of olive drab and gold epaulets. Some matched his rank. Septim was recognizable by his large, muscular stature, his dark hair and the blue-and-white sash he wore as colonial representative over his uniform, along with the Order of Leopold, just as his father had worn.

"What are you hesitating for?" a mustached officer, General Lefebvre asked, rising from his seat. "OZ is clearly trying to secure their position further with this."

He tightened his white gloved hand into a fist. "In the meantime, technological strength like this will just threatened Earth further."

Septim listened, eyes closed, a gloved hand to his face. He said nothing.

"OZ views space merely as a massive factory for military hardware, and we must stop them! It's our mission, it has been since Operation 'M' began!"

Septim spoke finally, his voice deep and more than a little commanding, despite his younger age than most of his audience. "Any battle will result in high casualties. This is a fact. However, with our current military strength, dialogue is still an option."

A general in the back row rose to his feet. "They're planning to use Outer Space to manufacture and further refine their mobile doll force. These murder machines will allow OZ to take over the colonies and dictate policy!"

"Do the rest of you gentlemen feel the same?"

The crowd of general-rank officers—some of them twenty-year veterans, others clearly young replacements promoted in the chaotic days of OZ's coup—sat in silence. Septim watched them patiently, hiding his feeling of dread. _Like the Ten-Thousand-Year Congress after fleeing China. This is our Taiwan. _He thought of the National Assembly of the Republic of China, which had fled to Taiwan following its disastrous defeat in that country's famed civil war. Here in D-120, almost thirty generals sat, commanders of army groups and divisions that no longer existed. _What a wretched sight. No wonder Arroway keeps the navy staff to herself. _

"Zechs Merquise has arrived in Outer Space," an old voice declared. It came from the back row of officers, where Gwinter Septim I, an elderly but muscular bald man in a plain suit and bowtie, sat.

"The Lighting Count is alive?" someone murmured.

"Impossible! He's here?" another added.

"It's Earth that fears the arming of Outer Space the most," the elder statesman explained. "Zechs knows OZ better than any other, and wishes for peace planetside. We should take the time to hear what he has to say."

Gwinter Septim looked up at his grandfather. "He has cut his ties with OZ. But what is he doing in space?"

"That man must hold a great love for his motherland. Even at risk, he knows something must be done. We can't overestimate the importance of his visit."

Septim nodded. "I agree with my esteemed grandfather. Let's take a recess and find out exactly what he's up to."

There was no objection from the rest of the council and generals began to disperse. The younger Septim approached the elder. "When did you learn of this, grandfather?"

"Just now," he whispered back. "But first things first," he said, waiting for a private moment.

"'Dunkirk'?"

"I didn't want to agitate the council," his grandfather admitted. "I don't know the details. But I hear it's good."

Septim closed his eyes. "Thank God."

"Thank Arroway, if so. As much as I despise that woman, she gets results, just as you said. I'm sorry I ever doubted you."

"You had reason to be cautious, Grandfather. Her reputation in the Mobile Suit Troops was…unusual…but we needed that."

"I'm sorry, am I interrupting family business?"

Both turned to the shadows cast by the marble columns along the outer wall—in one stood Counter Admiral Arroway, hands crossed underneath her tan cloak and over her black uniform.

"Commander Arroway," the elder Septim almost growled. "Welcome back and congratulations."

"Thank you," she replied shortly, keeping her smile. "May I?"

"Of course, I was just leaving," the old man replied humbly, leaving the chamber.

"Arroway, I could use some good news right now."

She grinned at him devilishly from behind her fan. "Right away, Your Excellency."

In short order, the two were in a major hangar in the Military Quarter. At the top of the gantry, Arroway directed his attention to the hangar floor.

"I give you the Noventan Republic Home Army."

Across the warehouse floor were no less than twelve suits, a full squadron of battered and gunfire-riddled OZ-06MS 'Leos' in Alliance olive-drab. There were no less than three different sets of squadron markings between them. Below, scattered across the floor, were approximately two hundred battle-worn Alliance soldiers in officers, their uniforms still caked in dirt and stained with blood. Many were lying on the backs on medical sheets, attended to by medics.

"How many are there?"

"About ten times this, either on the colony or with the fleet," Arroway explained, resting her fan on her shoulder. "Some of them are worse off. But we have parts and ammunition, neither of which New Jerusalem possess."

"Make the preparations to organize them into two full-strength battalion."

"And the reinforcements?"

"Dissolve the Fifty-Fifth Separate Company. Take the best rated officers, promote them to the Republican Guard." He sighed. "I'm sorry, I'm micromanaging again, Helena."

She gave a loud, vibrant laugh, throwing her head back. "Of course, Mr. President."

He watched her, then turned back to the crowd below them. "I hope gassing half of Utah was worth it," he said, the regret in his voice obvious.

"Earth is lost," she said in a matter-of-fact sneer, before turning and strolling off, playing with her fan. "Good day, Mr. President."

He watched his defense minister depart and heaved a sigh. Obediently, a brilliantly-dressed bodyguard stood forward at attention. "Sir?"

"Oh, thank you. I'll be just another moment, Sergeant."

"Of course, sir."

He turned back to them view, putting his hands over the railing. Amid the activity, he spotted a very pretty girl, a young woman in jeans and a tight sweater, with long, wavy hair in a low elastic hair tie. With her sleeves rolled back, she was performing basic medical tests on the injured officers who were still able to sit upright, asking them to open their mouths for a flashlight and a thermometer.

_Who is she? _He shook his head and cleared his throat loudly. "Comrades, your attention please."

A few attentive men and women looked at him and recognized him, then immediately stood at attention. Those with their black caps saluted. The woman in civilian dress recognized him and immediately assumed an unmistakable military posture.

"The commander-in-chief is present!" she barked out, giving every indication she was actually the ranking officer.

He nodded at her, hiding his uncertainty about her. "Thank you. Actually, that's what I must say: thank you, all of you. I may have never have seen such a group of soldiers who have given so much, sacrificed so much, at every turn in this war."

He clenched his jaw. "I am…in awe of you. The Alliance has suffered enormously at the hands of OZ and its Colonial collaborators. You stand in its last citadel, the last sanctuary of peace and justice in Earth Sphere. And yet, I challenge anyone—OZ, the Romefeller Foundation, the colonies—to show me braver, harder soldiers than you. We in Outer Space owe you nothing for this task, because you are our salvation," he told them, his voice beginning to break.

"_Dio salvi l'Alleanza!_"

"_Dio salvi l'Alleanza!_" dozens of voices chanted back, echoing through the hangar.

**VIII**

The high-speed shuttle quickly delivered them to their destination: the farthest reaches of Earth Sphere, far removed from any colony clusters, just beyond Luna's orbit. From their cabin, Earth was a small blue and white sphere visible against the field of stars, the smallest Walker had ever seen it. But Walker wasn't looking at Earth.

He pressed himself against the small porthole, trying to get a better view of something much closer.

"Amazing, isn't it?" Sernan asked.

Walker was actually at a loss for words. Before him were a fleet of the largest spacecraft he'd ever seen, at least four massive barges that he could immediately pick out. Determining their dimensions was difficult until he recognized two much smaller military vessels, _Yi Xing_-class destroyers, flanking the forward-most ship. Both destroyers had their running lights illuminated, and the glare they cast on the huge tanker ship gave him some idea of its size. _The keel must be almost two kilometers long!_

"An eleven," Sernan said, squinting. "See that? The number eleven."

"It must be EHT-11, the _Jupiter_."

"How did you know that was the leadship?"

"I didn't," Walker admitted. "It's just a guess."

"Remember the days when they used to print the name on the side of a spacecraft?"

"No. Neither do you," he reminded him.

The four _Jupiter-_class tankers—half of the entire fleet, as far as Walker knew—had visibly been retrofitted as construction ships, and were jointly towing a massive diamond-shape construct behind them, probably more than a kilometer long. Despite its massive size, Walker couldn't get a very clear look at it from his position. The shuttle changed direction and accelerated, closing in on EHT-11 and shortly docked with a small umbilical tunnel not far beneath the command tower, a reminder that the _Jupiter _was not a warship, but a converted construction tender. The surroundings on the other side were worn out and showing their age, with the ceilings lined with uncovered, color-coded cables and pipes.

"Welcome aboard sirs," a middle-aged Central Asian man with gray, receding hair told them promptly as they exited the tunnel. He wore a rather starched dark orange work uniform, like an engineer, and the trademark black visor cap of a merchant marine captain. His nametag identified him: MUSABEYEV.

"Thank you, Captain."

"Follow me please," he said very quickly.

_He must work for OSC Concorde, _Walker thought. Concorde was a state-owned corporation, named after the city of Novelle Concorde on Luna. They had been created in the early days of the Alliance solely for the purpose of resource extraction beyond Mars, what few resources there were out there. Walker didn't know who owned the corporation now.

Musabeyev led them to the bridge, which was similarly sparse and utilitarian compared to that of a warship. A half-dozen officers filled all the active positions, all wearing the same dark orange uniforms.

"Please wait here. We'll arrive at MO-V very soon, where you will transfer," he explained, sitting down at his own position, which looked as much like a small office as anything else.

"Thank you, Captain," Walker finally said. "Can we ask a question?"

Musabeyev didn't say anything, but gestured with his hands in what seemed like the affirmative.

"I wasn't able to see it clearly, but what is it that we're towing? Is it the contractor project for MO-V?"

He nodded. "It's the North Block."

"The North Block of what, Captain?"

"The military's newest weapon, they've said. It doesn't have a name yet."

It was a very unsatisfactory answer, but Walker understood that if he and Sernan hadn't been told anything, it was likely Musabeyev didn't either. After all, his responsibility was transport, as it had always been for the captain of this tanker. He had no role in construction.

"Thank you, Captain." Walker sat down at the back of the bridge, crossing his arms. Sernan, looking dismayed, followed him. And the _Jupiter _continued on, barely interrupted by the two arriving officers, in silence much like its captain. Within a few hours, MO-V became clearly visible through the forward windows, a tall, potato-shaped asteroid with a slowly-spinning Stanford torus colony ring imbedded in it, with industrial complexes and docks extended in both directions.

Musabeyev spoke again, this time through the intercom system. "We've arrived at MO-V, the farthest resource satellite from Earth, population one hundred thousand. Local time is fifteen hours, thirty two minutes."

"I think that's our cue," Walker said, rising with Sernan. "Thank you for the ride, Captain."

Musabeyev nodded without saying another word.

"You know Romefeller has an owning stake in OSC Concorde?" Sernan whispered to Walker as they departed the bridge.

Walker responded at normal volume. "I'd be more surprised if they didn't. The real question is who inherited the Alliance's fifty-percent-plus-one?"

"Well, OZ is allowed to own property. _Something _has to back the paycheques."

"Of course," Walker mumbled as the two returned to the section they'd boarded from. By the time they'd reached it, another much smaller shuttle was docking. The floor chief looked up at them.

"Good timing, sirs, your ride's here."

"How many more transfers before the next one's free?" Sernan joked. The floor chief gave him a good-natured shrugged. "I always find that civilian contractors have a better sense of humor."

"You mean they laugh at more of your jokes," Walker observed as the umbilical tunnel door opened again. This time, instead of more officers, young woman floated through in a bulky civilian normal suit missing its helmet. She stopped herself with one of the overhead cables.

"There's a difference?" Sernan asked, before looking at the newcomer.

"Are you two Lieutenant Walker and Lieutenant Sernan?"

"This is Flight Lieutenant Walker of the Mobile Suit Troops, and I'm Second Lieutenant Sernan of Engineering," Sernan said quickly. The woman looked a year or two younger than Walker, with medium-length dark hair that she wore tied with a red bow behind her neck, and when she landed on her feet in front of them extended her hand.

"Nice to meet both of you. I'm Lucille Aisley, with the MO-V's Technical College. I'll be escorting you to the dock where the North Block is scheduled for completion, so you can do your reviews."

"Thank you, Ms. Aisley."

"Please, call me Lucille. Come on, it's a short flight, and I promise it's plush compared to this. I can't believe you're not wearing your normal suits."

With a steady hand, Lucille delivered them to one of the massive extending dock arms reaching out from the asteroid proper. Half way down the arm was a spinning habitat ring, which Lucille pointed at. "You're welcome to head to Old Town every night, but the workers find that having their own habitat is a lot more efficient and cuts down on traffic. It's not as nice as the rest of the dock, but it's all right."

Walker and Sernan nodded dutifully as the shuttle linked with another tunnel and they crossed over.

"Time for a quick tour," Lucille announced enthusiastically as she began discarded her normal suit. She wore a more brightly-colored one-piece orange-and-yellow corporate jumpsuit. "Over that way is the habitat ring that you saw. In your rooms you'll get your work clothes, which'll be a lot better than your uniforms, I promise."

"We brought work clothes," Walker promised.

She nodded. "On the way is Medical, hopefully you'll never need to visit. You're both engineers, right?"

Walker nodded and gesture at Sernan. "The lieutenant is still in the service, but I was on the design department at the Corsica Works."

"Great! Follow me." Grabbing some guide rails, the three proceeded down the hundreds of meters that made up the main thoroughfare for the dock. "That's life support, you guys are probably familiar with that. Each dock is self-sufficient, we produce all our air and water. Right, Dick?"

Another young man in similiar work uniform, 'HIDASAKI' sewn on his breast, waved as she passed. "Hey Lucille!"

"What did you originally produce here, Lucille?" Walker asked as they continue on.

"Ship hulls and drive systems. But before the Alliance fell, we were a subcontractor and secondary assembly plant for the Leo mobile suit, space type."

"I see."

Lucille gave him a look before continuing on with the same enthusiasm. "And at the end of the line is your workplace, the hangars and assembly arms for shipbuilding. This is where you'll spend most of our time. But before that, the best part."

"What would that be?"

"The mess hall, of course."

The three entered a small section built into the end of the dock. Inside was a lounge that doubled as a small cafeteria. There were all the trappings of comfort: video displays, magazines, a couch on the top level which was opened into the dining area below it. The two floated down and saw another older woman moving things between shelves and cabinets Identified by her nametag was another civilian in a work uniform, Levy showed them the back of the compartment to reveal an efficiently-designed kitchen. Levy asked them about their favorite desserts.

"Excuse me?"

"Desserts, Lieutenant Walker. I like to make everyone's favorite desert if I can. What about you, you have a favorite, Lieutenant Sernan?"

Sernan answered in a second. "Key lime pie. I really like key lime pie."

"Can do, Lieutenant," Levy responded with a big smile, looking back at Walker. "I didn't get yours, Lieutenant Walker."

Walker was actually thinking about how she referred to both of them by the same title. "Could you do lemon sorbet?"

"With a little lemon liqueur? Easy, I've got bottles coming in from MO-V tonight."

"Really?" Walker was genuinely surprised.

"Really. Just ask Lucy, I'm a whiz at this sort of thing. Put some chocolate syrup on it."

"Maybe some whipped cream?" Sernan asked.

"Well…"

Walker raised an eyebrow. "You can't have everything, Ron. And at this air pressure, that seems to include whipped cream. You'll have to go to Old Town instead."

The two floated back up to the lounge area. "Well, what do you think?" Lucille asked, grinning.

"You have a very organize operation here, Lucille," Walker congratulated her as genially as he could manage.

"Well, we're not the navy or anything, but we like to try," she beamed.

"Is that so?" Walker asked, peering out the thick bulkhead window in the lounge, just over a card table. Out past there, clear of the arms and gantries, he could see OZ-06SMS 'Space Leos' in cautious, careful maneuvers. They had no squadron markings or insignia, and were finished in a gunmetal grey with a blue polish—the same gunmetal grey as MO-V's main structural torus.

"Well, we know how to protect ourselves," she assured him quickly. "You have to be careful out here, even without the Alliance."

Sernan gave a laugh. "I'd thought out here, you traded the Alliance for banditry!" he observed.

Lucille gave him a cool, no-nonsense look, as Walker coughed into a white glove. "As I said, everything looks quite in order here."

**IX**

The security detail around Luxembourg City's Grand Ducal Palace had subtly increased, both from the OZ Earth Army's Guard of Honor and plainclothes Romefeller Foundation security personnel. The Duke of Liechtenstein met with his colleagues on the Foundation's board, including his nephew, the Count of Nuenburg.

"The Yuy Foundation has been anxious to help us, particularly on area of establishing order following the collapse of the Winner Corporation's plutocracy. Both the first and second Lagrangian Congresses have approved of a collective intervention by colonial militia forces."

"Very well done, Cousin Treize. Outer Space has come close to accepting OZ," Dermail Catalonia exclaimed from behind his desk.

"So it seems," Treize Khushrenada said in agreement.

"And Colonel Une's achievements have been impressive, formalizing relations with one colony after another."

"We still hope that the sense of independence that comes with building a nation in Outer Space will lead to a mindset encouraging productivity and defense," Treize elaborated.

"And this leads to the nation developing a military," Duke Dermail finished for him. "The end result will be every country on Earth seeking military parity. They'll practically be begging for OZ's leadership. It's beautiful, Treize, you've managed to integrate Outer Space into the Romefeller Foundation."

"Excuse me, sir!"

Another Foundation official approached his desk and he turned to him. "Ah, Mr. Tubarov. Have you finished packing?"

"Yes I have." Colonel Tubarov Villemont turned his head slightly and glanced at Treize blankly. Treize stared back at him.

The Duke cleared his throat a bit awkwardly. "Tubarov is heading for Outer Space to personally oversee mobile doll production, expanding military strength on the frontier. I've written Une, and she's accepted the addition."

"Lady Une did?" Treize asked.

"I think Colonel Une is quite pleased with the mobile dolls," Tubarov pointed out.

"Well, I'm glad to hear that. Will you gentlemen excuse me?" Treize asked as he departed. Tubarov followed suit, leaving through another door as uniformed officer appeared for the Duke.

"Ah, Tal, you have the reports?"

Flight Officer Tal nodded. "Yes sir, Your Grace." Reaching into his leather briefcases, he laid out two bound founders, both bearing the Military Commissariat Emblem. The Duke strummed his fingers against his desk for a few minutes. "You know something about mobile dolls, don't you, son?"

"A little, Your Grace. I was with Colonel Villemont at Ruhr Valley."

Dermail sighed. "Right, that incident. To tell you the truth, I've been trying to keep those two apart, and it's becoming tiresome. Hopefully Colonel Une will be more agreeable than my nephew."

"Is that why he's leaving for Outer Space now, Your Grace?"

"It can be good to bring things to the light. Apparently the two have been having a little competition over military technology. Now they're going to have to learn to play nicely with one another. They're in the military, after all."

Dermail frowned under his mustache, leaving Tal to stand in silence, unsure if he should speak.

"Was there anything else, Tal?"

"I-...Sorry, Your Grace. Ms. Dorothy is also here to see you, sir."

Dermail made the same sighing noise and nodded. "Please have some tea brought up for us."

In the New Castle in neighboring Ansembourg that evening, OZ's commander-in-chief waited for his household staff to retire for the evening before opening a direct audio and video link with the OZ Legation in L1-C-102.

"_This is Lady Une. Your Excellency, it's been a while since we last spoke,_" Une greeted him.

Treize coughed uncomfortably. There was something about seeing Une in civilian dress that caught him off guard. "Lady Une…"

"_I almost convinced myself that you'd be joining Chief Engineer Villemont on his trip to Outer Space._"

"Yes, I wanted to speak to you about that. Just how exactly do you plan to use the Mobile Doll troops?"

"_I plan to use them as your soldiers in such a way that it won't cause you grief_," she explained without missing a beat.

"My soldiers?" Treize asked, raising an eyebrow.

Une almost giggled. "_You're not being fair, Your Excellency. You are the person who must lead this world. Instead, you've let it fall into a state of utter confusion. I came to Outer Space to be of assistance to you, and I've laid out a new future for you, Your Excellency._"

"Fighting will never disappear from this world, in which case, the strongest will inevitably be the ones to rule. It's a simple fact that people feel the need to be controlled by others, whether they'd ever admit it. It's natural for the world to encourage fighting for that reason. "

"_But that only leads to more bloodshed. Your Excellency, you are capable of loving all people. You have a heart that can make you a god, you'll create peace on Earth from here, in space."_

Treize leaned forward in his chair, his hands together. "My Lady, you're only thinking of your ideal of me when you see that future," he explained before standing up.

"_It's what you've wanted, Your Excellency_."

"My desires are just the fantasy of a single individual. History is the accumulation of daily lives. I have no interest in an individual's future."

"_But your future has already been determined: your future is here in Outer Space._"

Strolling to his window, Treize turned back, his voice tightening. "Lady Une, I'm not as strong as you think I am. Zechs and the Gundam pilots are making an effort to construct a new future as we speak. There's no need to hurry, history will repeat itself." He paused. "My Lady, please come back to me. The Lady Une I used to be so fond of."

In the Grand Ducal Palace, Duke Dermail had finished tea with his granddaughter, who insisted upon lingering about in his office. Tal entered the office again, bowing politely in front of Dorothy Catalonia, who simply smiled at him from her plush seat.

"Your Grace, a call from _Barge_, from a Flight Officer Tycho Nichol."

Dermail nodded. "Put it through immediately, Tal."

Dorothy leaned towards her grandfather, her face beaming with curiosity. "Who is that, Grandfather?"

"A reliable officer on Lady Une's staff," he explained, unfolding the screen for the video terminal built seamlessly into his desk.

"_Your Grace, Nichol from Barge here. I hope I'm not interrupting anything._"

"Go ahead, Nichol, get to the point," Dermail insisted. "Did you confirm it was Zechs Merquise?"

"_Yes, it's Zechs Merquise without question._"

"So Zechs is in Outer Space now, is he?"

"_Yes, Your Grace, establishing relations with the military colonies of the former Alliance._"

"Nichol, as I'm sure you know, it's paramount that OZ destroy the Alliance Space Forces. There's no reason to leave them running about like this, especially with the addition of the Mobile Doll Troops."

"_Yes sir._"

"I've also sent Une the requests of the World Assembly government. Let her know I'd like her comments on them."

"_Of course, sir_."

Dermail closed the link and turned to Dorothy, who was still beaming at him over an empty cup of tea. Dorothy had a habit of lingering, turning afternoon tea into an all-day affair, especially when he didn't find an excuse to fob her off. "I take it you're happy about this Zechs business?" he asked a little indignantly. The tricky with Dorothy, he found, was to find the right tone to address her with. She was much too intelligent for her own good.

"Of course I am! What a shame it'd be to lose such a great warrior!" Dorothy practically sang. "Isn't that true, Grandfather?"

"That sounds like something your father would have said. You really should be more careful than he was, Dorothy."

**X**

In one of L1-D-120's military hangars, a full platoon of Alliance Space Forces engineers stared at Tallgeese, resting on a shuttle booster, in wonder. Some distance away in D-120's weather control center, the elder Septim greeted his guest.

"Welcome, Ambassador. I believe we were enemies in the past, but changes in wartime bring changes in loyalties."

"I care deeply for Earth, just as the Alliance does," Millardo Peacecraft replied, to the surprise of General Septim behind him.

"I heard you came from Earth to discuss the arms buildup in colonial space."

Millardo nodded slightly. "If this simply involved a new military state forming, I wouldn't be that worried," he said, rather unconvincingly. "However, if they're being deceived by OZ, then I can't ignore this turn."

General Septim looked at the much smaller, much younger man. "OZ intends to use space as an industrial base for military might."

"Which would worsen the already severe wars on Earth, with serious casualties."

"How do you feel about the colonial population, Mr. Peacecraft?" the elder Septim asked.

"The teachings of their great leader, the late Heero Yuy, still exist. Outer space once thrived as its own world, tainted by neither Earth's history nor its need for arms.

At the console behind Gwinter Septim I, an on-duty officer barely stifled a laugh.

"The colonies set an example for peace on Earth."

"They set an example…" Septim repeated. "If only people out here had heard that sooner, perhaps they wouldn't have changed their minds."

"Why not tell Mr. Peacecraft about the state of colony politics?" his grandson asked. "Why it's so crucial we remain in space!"

"The reason you've stayed here?" Millardo asked.

"Indeed. When the Alliance was defeated by OZ on Earth, our first thought was to surrender the Space Forces. But we realized that our surrender would leave the colonies in chaos. You see, sir, the space colonies are a realm of precise calculations," he explained, gazing at a screen before him. "This particular installation has always monitored the state of the colony's habitable zone. Colony rotational speed, atmospheric conditions, weather management. Natural phenomena that are taken for granted as uncontrollable on Earth are generated by machinery controlled by humans. Living in this sort of world takes a certain awareness.

He turned to him. "Ironically, it breeds insecurity. It's the only way to live here. And insecure people seek weapons to give them a sense of security."

"How can people discard that sense of insecurity?"

"By attacking Earth in their search for stability. Ironic, isn't it?" he warned grimly. A general alarm siren blared, as the younger Septim glanced at his mobile.

"It looks like OZ has decided to respond to Operation 'Dunkirk' finally. It looks like a harasser force, mobile suit carriers. We'll prepare our counterattack!"

"I'd like to join your counterattack!" Millardo announced, too quickly.

"A goodwill ambassador can't engage in a military conflict, surely you must know this!"

"I know the risks…"

"I'm not certain you do," Septim shouted back. "Contact Arroway, tell her to muster her troops!"

His grandfather turned back to Millardo. "Perhaps we can show you what we're still capable of."

**XI**

Floating through the main corridor of the construction arm extended outwards from MO-V, Lucille looked through a thick window into the dining compartment, where he saw the two OZ engineers sitting with MO-V's representative, Ryoga Herman. The representative, wearing another tacky-patterned three-piece suit, kept insisting the other engineers try items from the full-course breakfast he'd prepared for them.

On the other side of the glass, Sernan and Walker tried to turn down his generosity, which Herman would have nothing of. "You have to try this soufflé, Lieutenant, I insist! You don't get soufflé like this on Earth!"

"It smells delicious, Your Honor, but really, you're too kind…"

"It rises differently, you see?"

Lucille laughed at the sight before continuing on her way through the through fare. A relaxingly-paced breakfast later, the two emerged with the representative smacking them on the back from a joke good-naturedly and taking his leave.

"I see what they mean by humble," Sernan commented, adjusting his glasses.

"Politicians come in all types, even out here in the frontier," Walker offered, as the two took the guide rails and began down the corridor.

Sernan smiled at him. "You seem pretty well, sir."

"What gave you the impression I wasn't?" Walker asked over his shoulder.

Sernan rubbed the back of his head with a hand. "Well, I don't mind telling you why I'm here, sir. The division leader got word of my insomnia."

"From what?" Walker asked.

"I've been having…bad dreams…about the attack on Lake Victoria. I was there that night, 11 April." Walker didn't respond so Sernan continued. "So, they sent me out here on on-duty leave. Quieter than the frontlines."

He gave a sigh and force a smile. "And that's why I'm here, sir. A little mandatory on-duty vacation time." He couldn't get a response from the back of Walker's head, just the band of his flight goggles. The two said nothing further until they passed into the construction section.

Sernan pointed to one of the massive window panes on the observation section. "Look, the _Jupiter_."

Walker stared at the ship a few kilometers out from MO-V, closing in on the North Block between them. "Or one of its sister ships, yes." In the distance, Sol cast its shadow onto the large, angular prism, and a smaller warship emerged from the darker spot, followed by a boxy supply ship hauling a dozen containers. The two split up, the warship circling MO-V and the supply ship moving in to dock. "Looks like a _Novosibirsk_-class light cruiser."

"Good call. Maybe the _Yakutsk_?"

"It could be. Or the _Ufa_." Walker grabbed a handhold to stop himself as he floated. _The fleet really is scattered all over the place. _"Come on, let's get to work."

When Lucille entered the construction dock again an hour later, both men were standing table display in an adjacent chamber, scanning past dozens of cross sections for the North Block, with subtle variations in colors highlighting the individual sections being brought together.

"It's coming together all right, but I'm still not sure what this is, sir. Maybe a military expansion package for a colony?"

Walker shook his head. "The shape is all wrong. And look at this drive core in the center going down into the ventral surface. Why would you want that for a colony?"

"An escape method? Like on that Winner Corporation resource satellite?" Sernan frowned. "No, but that's stupid."

He scrolled through more pages of schematics when Walker raised his hand. "Stop there. See? This is clearly intended to accelerate into military velocities."

"Well, maybe it's a replacement for the Jupiter Fleet. Something purposed designed. The armor superstructure might be for close maneuvering near Jupiter opposite tidal forces."

"Maybe. We'd need to ask an astronomer. That would answer the question of size though." Walker reached out and changed the page on the display. "You should be able to tell a lot about something from its power plant." _At least, a good engineer should be able to. _

Sernan put a finger to his temple. "I heard the _Peacemillion_-class is more massive, but they've been retired. There's only two operational ships anyway. EBC-31's had its primary drive reactor and propulsion engines removed, and cannot leave Earth Sphere. Same for the lead ship, if it's even operational."

"Making them the largest ships leaving Earth Sphere."

Sernan nodded. "I knew a colonel who'd spent thirty months on Mars. Retired years ago."

"Not on Mars, I hope."

Sernan chuckled at the joke for a moment as the wheel on the bulkhead door behind him turned and the door swung open. Lucille floated through, smiling cheerfully and waving. "'Morning guys! How did you both sleep?"

"Fine, thank you."

"And thank you for a delicious breakfast!" Sernan added quickly.

"Well, you can thank Representative Herman for that," she assured them. "He might be humble for a politician, but he enjoys showing off with a good meal."

Lucille laughed as Walker deactivated the schematics display. "Lucille, you're from the Technical College here at MO-V, right?"

"You got it."

"Humor me for a moment, please?" Walker asked.

Lucille smiled like a particularly smug feline, crossing her arms. "Of course."

"Civilian applications of fusion power rely on deuterium-tritium reactions, which has been around for centuries and consists of a deuterium and a tritium atom being fused together, producing a helium-4 atom and a high-energy neutron particle. Military applications rely on deuterium-deuterium reactions, where two atoms are fused to produce helium-3 and a neutron. The later produces more energy."

"That's right."

"And we use the Soviet _Tokamak _magnetic containment field design inside our ultracompact fusion reactors in mobile suits. It's a compartment about _this _big," he said, gesturing with his hands, "….with a number of superconducting field coils, a vacuum system and a central solenoid. And the cooling system of course."

"Of course," Lucille said, her tone jokingly implying it should be obvious to anyone.

"The energy needed to raise the magnetic field to a point where it can sufficient pressure is significant, but still several times less than the energy produced in the reaction, in the form of heat. That heat powers the magnetohydrodynamic system that is a very volume-efficient system of producing electricity for use. A large power station reactor uses a steam turbine and exchanger."

"Also correct."

"I also know that fusion reactors can be built with inertial containment by lasers instead of magnetic fields, and other methods. But while inertial containment produces more energy, it requires laser generators the size of large buildings, and is really only viable in large ships and civilian functions. And other methods are still largely experimental."

"Now you're sounding like an engineer in OZ. I hope you know more about military applications of fusion than I do," she admitted with a grin.

"What I don't understand is the fuel economy," Walker explained quickly. "Deuterium was obtained from the oceans. Tritium is produced from deuterium in old nuclear fission reactors. So what is the point of the Jupiter Energy Fleet?"

"Helium-3."

"Helium-3?" Walker repeated.

Aisely flashed a grin at him. "I'm not good with history, but about a hundred years ago, the market for helium-3 collapsed. For some reason or another, using helium-3 from Jupiter for fusion became totally unnecessary or uneconomical or something. The helium-3 that was needed came from deuterium reactors or Luna. The fleet of Jupiter-bound helium tankers, the biggest ships ever built before the Alliance commissioned the last expedition carriers, was mothballed. But they were still useful for colony construction."

Walker nodded. "And the construction of _Barge _as well.

The three stared out the bay windows at Northern Block.

"So you think this is part of a new space fortress, OZ's replacement for _Barge_?" Sernan asked.

"I thought it was, but now I'm less convinced," Walker replied. "It's difficult to make out with the naked eye, drive core paired with each one of those sensor towers on either side of the block. Compared to immobile colonies and space fortresses, which just have maneuvering engines."

"Like some kind of super-battleship?" Lucille offered.

"I'm not sure," Walker admitted. Lucille stared at his cryptically blank expression, eyes locked on the North Block. She couldn't tell if he was genuinely uncertain, or just hiding what he did know.

She laughed loudly. "Well, whatever. Maybe the next batch of engineers will have some theories. Then you guys, and those guys, can pound your theories together into something coherent," she chuckled, gesturing with her small fists.

"Ah, more reinforcements?" Sernan asked.

"Civilian contractors approved by your boss, Ambassador Une." She made an unconcerned expression, gesturing over her head with her right hand. "Apparently, we Colonials aren't enough. They should be on that supply ship that just came in."

She let herself float in the low gravity. "Even if she's an Earthling, it'll be nice to have another girl on board. I'm getting tired of forcing small talk with Dick all day."

The bulkhead door behind them creaked loudly as the wheel spun and Lucille easily spun herself around to face it. "That must be her now," she said with a smile, floating up to it and extending a hand. It was taken by the person entering the compartment, in the same orange-and-yellow work suit, with long blond hair crafted into a ponytail and a number of pigtails emerging from an off-blue headband. The other woman, the same age, shook it and flashed a sparkling, toothy smile back at her.

"Lieutenants, this is Rachel Nina Bishop," Lucille chirped. "I invited her personally from Earth for the job. Rachel, this is…"

"Hello, Rani. How are you?" Walker interrupted her, pulling his goggles over his cap.

The young blonde with blue-green eyes looked past Lucille, her eyes widening in surprise and then dismay and with her free hand, she shielded her eyes and forehead as she tried to shrink into her baggy work suit. Lucille looked at her, confused, then at Walker, still confused.

"You two know each other?"

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_I'm a little embarrassed how long this update took (I've been sidetracked with other projects and my two jobs, one of which gives me considerable time to actually work on writing typically)._

_Also, it's pretty clear I know the absolute bare minimum, or maybe even less, about the application of fusion for power generation. _

_We get a little more insight into the way Walker's mind work, and the appearance of more characters from the manga sidestory _G-Unit. _Hopefully, this is a good use of them into the general frame of the story, weaving them into OZ's rise in power from the _Libra _and from mobile doll production. This is a story about a former engineer after all. I'll have to make sure my next chapter goes up _much _faster. Stay tuned!_


	37. Battleship Libra

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 37 – Battleship **_**Libra**_

News had already spread to Luna, past the First Lagrange Point, that an invasive strike had been ordered from _Barge _on the Area D of L1. The Lunar Military District's troops weren't summoned to join. Instead, sometime later, the order went out to sortie: a mobile suit closely resembling a Gundam was approaching over the northern hemisphere.

"Wait, 'approaching'? Not attacking?" Pilot Officer Liu Enlai asked, as Squadron 6 of the 91st Combat Engineers Regiment went on alert. The whole regiment had a reputation as one of the top Space Leo units permanently deployed in the Lunar Military District—immediate threats to Luna, particularly in the Oceanus Procellarum region, were usually its purview—versus the frequently-rotated Taurus squadrons.

"_It hasn't opened fire_," a voice responded over his black communication cap under his helmet, just as he secured the magnetic seals.

"Who spotted it, ma'am?" he asked while jumping into the air: in Luna's low gravity, it put him within reach of cable hanging from the gantry above, which pulled him up to the level of his OZ-06SMS and its waiting, open hatch.

"_You're not going to believe this: the personal shuttle of one Colonel Tubarov Villemont._"

"Holy cr-…acknowledged." Liu shook his head as he climbed in and began buckling his restraints. A nearby hangar crewman reached into his cockpit, flipped a bank of switches to power up his avionics, and then gave him a thumbs up. Liu nodded at him as he floated away. Another hangar crew officer cupped his hands and shouted, "Begin distribution of beam rifles!"

With his cockpit hatched closed, Liu took a moment to consider the situation while he completed his preflight check. _It could be one of those close-range combat Gundams. If it were Zero-One, it would have shot down the shuttle already. We'll need to look at the data from telemetry._

"Spade Flight, sound off!" he said as the other pilots in his unit indicated their status.

A different voice spoke out. "_All call signs, altitude restrictions lifted! Engage the Gundam and good luck!_"

In the deep space between Earth and Luna, on the bridge of the EASFS _Africana_, Counter Admiral Arroway sat at her 'throne', legs crossed and playing with her fan. Ex-Alliance Army Major General Grumman stood next to her in full uniform, watching the fire in the distance.

"You seem very well prepared out here," he pointed out.

"That we are, Mr. Defense Minister," Arroway replied, snickering at her own joke. Having the Republic of Utah's Minister of Defense, and his secretary, on her ship courtesy of Operation 'Dunkirk' was humorous even before the coincidence of her own cabinet position.

"Well, you didn't think OZ would just end it with a few mobile dolls, did you? They have a fleet, and far more than that."

"Trust me, we're prepared," she smirked back. "And as your secretary pointed out, the longer OZ waits, the more time we have to dig in."

She leaned forward, her voice taking a much more authoritative tone. "Any reports from Khattāb's Flight out at the Ventei Line?"

"Negative, ma'am, looks like they're still observing silence," a comms officer announced.

"He's got the stamina, he can take a few hours in the field," she mused aloud, eliciting a chuckle from her older guest. "Tell him to return directly to D-120 while we're engaged."

"Aye aye, ma'am!"

Arroway's muscular XO turned back to her. "Sir, Soletta's flight has deployed."

Leaning back in her throne, Arroway nodded. "Let her have some fun, _this_ won't be lasting long. We have much better pilots up here too, you see."

"Hopefully that'll be true when your colonies run out of fuel as well," the general replied calmly, a smiling forming in the corner of his mouth. "Or have you found a solution to that issue as well?"

Outside, Captain Soletta's OZ-06SMS 'Space Leo' weaved in and out of her own colony's defensive network, trying to lure the OZ-01MD units attacking into multiple fields of fire. In response, the Taurus mobile dolls matched each dive and twist while keeping their formation, with only the mobile dolls on the edges being tagged with fire.

"_Shit, they're learning!_"

"I know, Sabre 2-1, I know!" Soletta shouted back. Since they scrambled, she'd barely had time to throw on her normal suit, and her helmet sat between her legs. Using her AMBAC systems, a quick burst from her starboard vernier thruster sent her mobile suit into a controlled spin as it dove out of a Taurus' sights. Another Leo appeared behind where she'd been, catching the mobile doll off guard, and began firing repeatedly, scoring hits with its beam rifle.

Soletta watched the doll's right manipulator explode when a lucky shot triggered an explosion in the beam rifle's cyclotron. "_I got it! I got it!_"

"Great, Sabre 2-1, but watch out for…!" she began before she was cut off. The same mobile doll, unphased by the attack, threw itself at the Pioneer Leo and savagely bashed at it with its incredibly hard arm fins. The Leo spun erratically before suffering a fuel explosion, its pilot barely having a chance to bail out.

"All units, pull back further into the defensive field. Get in range of the destroyers!" The remaining Pioneer Leos flew backwards towards the defensive positions, upon which a lone _Titan-_class cruiser opened fire with its main guns, forcing the tight mobile doll formation to scatter.

**II**

At _Barge_, Lieutenant Colonel North and Major Bremer sat in on a briefing from a junior officer, recounting the events of 25 and 26 August in low Earth orbit.

"Our own findings support the Military Commissariat's earlier report that the Continental American Military District used biological weapons to cover their escape into Outer Space, termed Operation 'Dunkirk'," the officer said, gesturing to the array of Alliance units depicted launching into orbit.

"The Commissariat should have already received Space Forces report about how many Alliance troops were recovered by this new Admiral Arroway," Bremer explained.

North nodded. "We'll also need a new liaison from their office."

"Really?" Bremer asked.

North nodded. "Hopkins just checked out. The kid won't stop shaking in his boots about Millardo Peacecraft. Though on the positive side, Nichol looks nicely composed next to him."

Bremer raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly. Nichol had sent two flights of Taurii out to 'observe' Millardo Peacecraft's rendezvous with the Alliance at D-120, his indignation not allowing him to just let it go.

"I'll request Luxembourg send someone up here. We have enough work to juggle as it is."

Bremer nodded, then looked over at the door to the conference room stoop up. He walked over to it, closed it, and returned to the table. "Do you think we're close?"

North nodded, glancing at the calendar hanging on the wall. 1 September, A.C. 195. "'Citadel' will begin before the end of this month. I've heard a second pair of Mercurius and Vayeate are nearly completed."

"I'm not really a mobile suit man," Bremer admitted. "My daughter knows more about this sort of thing."

North nodded. "Will Flight Officer Bremer be joining us?" he asked, tauntingly.

Bremer smiled. "Not if I have anything to do with it. Returning to the matter at hand, I can't imagine Colonel Une will be happy to hear about Nichol's decision."

"Well, it was hardly his decision to make."

"I could have given him some fire support from _Barge _itself," Bremer speculated.

"And then you'd have to fall on your sword along with Nichol. You made the right call." North shook his head as the door beeped and slid open, revealing Tycho Nichol himself. The flight officer looked particularly defeated.

"Sirs, Officer Nichol reporting in," he said with a somber salute.

"Nichol, how went your 'reconnaissance' mission?"

"Poorly," Nichol admitted, clearly embarrassed. "They were all lost. I'm sorry to have wasted a whole six mobile dolls."

He paused briefly after saying that, as if turning the concept over in his mind.

"They were just mobile dolls, Mr. Nichol," North said finally.

"I-I know that," he said, almost stuttering. "I'll tender my resignation if necessary, sirs."

"I don't think that'll be necessary," Bremer said, quickly leaning forward while glancing at North's smile. "I think Colonel Une will be dealing with you personally."

Nichol visibly swallowed and sat down at the table. He still looked rather pained.

"The real concern is: Project 'Krepast' is well under way, but will not produce results usable on our time frame. Try as we might, 'Citadel' can't be delayed any longer. Thanks to this 'Dunkirk' evacuation, the World Congress is demanding we strike before something like this happens again. And Noventa is only becoming more entrenched with every day passing. I heard at the same time as your mobile doll attack, one of _their_ cruisers was prodding at our outer defensive line. So, what can we do?" North asked.

"Call back all your best men. Forget these down-the-line projects, get everything tangible here now." He glanced at Nichol. "The same for you, Mr. Nichol, while you still can."

"Yes sir." Nichol rose from his seat and paused. "Oh, and one last thing sirs: Gundam Zero-Five surrendered to the Lunar Military District just a few hours ago."

The two superior officers looked up at Nichol. "Really?" North finally asked, holding back a smile.

"Yes. The pilot's being held at Luna for the time being, along with what's left of his Gundam. It seems like he never intended to assassinate the arriving Colonel Villemont, but surrender his arms. If you'll excuse me, I need to place some calls."

Nichol excused himself quickly from the room as North looked at Bremer for a few moments in silence.

"Can you believe how little I find myself caring about that?"

"I keep telling your comrades in the M.S. Troops, sir, the Gundams aren't the enemy up here. Half of them can barely operate in space, which you think wouldn't be the case given where they came from," Bremer insisted.

North nodded. "Neither can the troops evacuated during 'Dunkirk', but don't tell that to the General Staff." He leaned towards Bremer. "Nichol's lying, but what do you think of?"

"No idea," Bremer admitted. "Maybe it's worse than we think."

"Moving on, Armonia is already doing the same with her operational command of First Recon. I'll muster the rest of the Seventh Division." North leaned back in his seat. "Bradley's at L2, overseeing recruitment, but we can cut that short. Chernenko is still at L4 with Sedici's man Andretti, and Walker's out with Project 'Krepast'."

"You think he's ready?"

North shrugged. "I'm not a psychologist, that's Dr. Arai's job. But so long as he doesn't have to fight Ambassador Millardo Peacecraft _personally, _I'm sure he'll be fine," he said, convincingly.

**III**

Lucille Aisley floated through the outermost corridors of MO-V, being passed by trollies of shipbuilding components running on rails on the opposite walls. At the corridor junction she spotted Dick Hidasaki checking off a list as the carts sped by.

"Dick, have you seen Rani?"

"Ms. Bishop? She's...at the fabrication dock."

"Thanks!" Lucille replied, already flinging herself in that direction. As Hidasaki said, standing amid unmistakable assembly gantries for Space Leos, was Rani in a baggy jumpsuit unzipped to her waist, her long pigtails and ponytail floating in the air, despite being half-tucked into her bright headband. Over that she wore a pair of protective goggles, same as the others.

"Rani!"

Rachel Nina Bishop turned, pigtails bobbing about, and took a metal clipboard off the loose-hanging utility belt she wore and tossed it at Lucille, spinning vertically. Aisely caught it, turned it over, and review the papers attached to it. Rani, like the other independent contractors, was overseeing the testing of smaller components arriving from all over Earth Sphere and their preliminary assembly: the motors for a lift car, the distributor system attached to a power generator, and so forth.

_"Each of these components will need to be tested, then assemble in its local subsection. From there, each subsection will be tested again, expanded upon and tested again. We'll repeat this until the component is either due for attachment to the superstructure or too large for us to work with in this area." _That was the speech she'd given to the body of contractors that arrived to work at this part of the North Block, even if many of them were familiar with the common extraterrestrial shipbuilding practices. Rani was a little different.

"Hey, Number Thirty-Three! Watch your head, will ya'?"

Each regular worker, in addition to their identity badge on a lanyard around their neck, had the same information blown up on a sheet carried in a transparent envelope on the back of their work uniform, including a very visible two-digit number and their ID portrait. Rani was 04 to Lucille's 02.

"Looking good, Rani," Lucille said, all smiles, as she floated over.

"You know it," she rejoined, watching 33 duck underneath the controls of his crane, as a length of cable as thick as a human torso was pulled by on wires.

"Ever work on anything his big before?"

"Nope," Rani replied quickly. "Worked on mobile suits though."

"Good, good…" she said, watching Rani spin around in time to point a handheld scanner at a exposed power coupling floating by her, reading the barcode label taped to the side. "For a terrestrial, you move really well in space."

"Thanks!" she said, before using the furniture of the station she was working at to turn herself upside down and then throw herself to a lower level. "Come on, I wanna' check out this turret well."

Lucille followed Rani to a corner of the chamber, where they found a heavy anti-mobile suit twin-barreled beam cannon ball turret, upside down, with its generator column, capacitors, cooling system and power conduits reaching upwards from the actual barrel sockets and hydraulic motor.

"Man, how many of these things are there?"

"I've counted more than twenty so far."

"No, I mean more like déjà vu. This is just a supercharged version of the circular-mount colony defense ball turret. I must have seen hundreds of them in my career," she admitted. She watched as 37 and 41 carefully mounted the remaining turret barrel, turning it into the socket like a large screw with magnetized handholds. With that, the turret itself was completed.

"We'll start running the component test," 41 said as he floated by. Rani nodded.

"Outer Space really is super militarized," Lucille muttered, before chuckling. "Sounds like something your boyfriend would say," she teased, giving Rani a friendly shove. With surprising speed, Rani snatched her by the waist and their shared momentum caused them to spin, Lucille yelping in shock.

"Take it back!" Rani demanded, high-pitched but threatening.

"Let go!"

"I said take it back!"

"Okay, okay, I take it back!" Lucille retorted. Rani let her go, and being closer to the turret, stopped herself by sticking one of her boots into the grove between a bunch of power conduits. Lucille kept spinning until she was within arms' reach of massive pneumatic screwdriver, which gradually slowed her down

Outside the assembly building in the dock, underneath North Block itself, Flight Lieutenant Walker and Lieutenant Sernan slowly floated in construction-grade normal suits, watching civilian mobile suits at work. Less than half the size of their military counterparts, the skeletal-looking machines carefully moved assembled components through the gaps in the superstructure for installation.

"_There's a lot less of it done than it appeared from the _Jupiter," Sernan said over the open radio channel.

"_That's usually the case,_" Walker said in agreement. He floated by Sernan, taking care not to get tangled in the other's tether.

"_I see what you meant by tetramerous symmetry,_" he observed, pointing further out to the edge of the block. He spoke of a symmetry that suggested the block was one of four symmetrical blocks to be combined ultimately. "_See the support axis reaching out?_"

Walker nodded under his helmet. "_At this rate, it'll be at least three thousand meters long. Half as long as _Barge_." _

_"That has to be the largest battleship ever commissioned. But frankly, I don't see how it's going to be a battleship or a dreadnought._"

"_Agreed. It'll look more like a space fortress._" Walker said, before pointing his handheld telescope in the direction of a sensor tower being raised into position. Turning slowly to his left, he was interrupted by something; Sernan watched him let the telescope hang from a lanyard around his wrist and check his pockets, eventually taking out his mobile.

"_You're getting a signal out here_?" Sernan asked. The mobile slipped out of Walker's grasp and he had to leaned forward to reach it before it floated too far.

"_Yes. We should, given that we're not getting it inside the satellite._"

"_Good point._ _Who is it?_"

Walker took a capacitive stylus out from his left wrist then swept it down the mobile's screen. To Sernan, it looked like he'd received a number messages.

"_Nothing, actually_," he told him in that deliberately neutral tone of voice. "_Switch with me, I want to get a look at that bulkhead section._"

Sernan floated by him. "_So, what happened between you and Ms. Bishop?_"

Walker held back a sigh and resumed looking through the telescope. "_You have a lot of questions today, don't you?_" He glanced to the left as some machinery approached."_Why don't you bother Mr. Bernett?_"

"_Please, sirs, 'Bernett' is fine. It sounds like you're talking to my father._" This came from the pilot of an approaching construction mobile suit, with its pilot visible in his normal suit. Odin Bernett came to halt on top of the utility transport that both officers were tethered to.

Sernan gave an apologetic chuckle. "_Sorry about that._"

"_Bother me about what?_"

"_Nothing really._"

"_Sernan was curious if there was some history between myself and Rachel Nina Bishop._" Sernan glanced at Walker in surprise.

"_Oh, you mean Lucille's new partner._" Bernett laughed. "_Well, if I know Lucille, I'm sure Ms. Bishop won't get much in edgewise._"

He continued laughing and then stopped as he floated up to them. "_Don't tell her I said that._"

Both men murmured their quick agreement. "_You two seem to have some history, actually_," Walker said, aiming his telescope in another direction.

"_Me and Lucille? I mean, sure, I've known her since childhood, but everyone here has. We're a pretty small community, really._"

"_You sound proud._"

Bernett laughed. "_Well, I never thought I'd be helping build a huge battleship to help protect the colonies! I guess I am proud!_"

Sernan smiled at the youth's response, while Walker kept staring through his telescope. Bernett glanced at Walker, then at Sernan, who just shrugged.

**IV**

"So, what are you in for?"

This had been Nichol's effort to make some lighthearted conversation. He spotted Second Lieutenant Hopkins as soon as he entered the waiting room for Une's office in the OZ Legation. He stood in front of tall window overlooking the city center in L1-C-102. He was shaking like a leaf in the wind.

"Hopkins?"

The Military Commissariat officer just kept facing out the window, shaking weakly. It didn't fill Nichol with confidence.

"Her Excellency will see you now," a lady's maid in a black-and-white uniform announced from the door.

_A maid in place of a diplomatic guard? Is this the 'Lyra' I keep hearing about? _Nichol stared at the woman, with her light complexion and dark hair in a short bob with precisely-trimmed bangs. He gave a sigh and entered the office reluctantly. Waiting behind the desk, in her full maroon dress uniform, was Lieutenant Colonel Une.

Staring at the Countess of Hanover, North's words repeated in his head as he saluted sharply.

_"You tell her whatever you need to, Nichol. But say nothing about Operation C. Une will be kept out of this military operation for as long as possible. Since she's completed her design work at Luna, we have seen no reason to her distract her from her normal diplomatic duties."_

_"I understand, sir."_

_"I would hope so." _North gave him a cool, largely non-threatening smile. _"His Grace Duke Dermail seems to agree."_

"What do you have to say for yourself, Nichol?" she asked, her voice a little dangerous.

He gave her a resolute stare, locking eyes with her own. "Lady Une, do you remember what I told you when you mentioned your belief that His Excellency, Colonel Khushrenada, would not join us in Outer Space, and there was no point for you to remain?

"I said that nothing could be farther from the truth. That no matter what, you had a duty as a soldier of OZ. That you were following orders from a fine leader, and that that was enough. That you, yourself, stood as fine leader above the soldiers, but your greatest strength was as a soldier and not just a commanding officer. That your place is not to guide His Excellency, but to serve him. And that that, more than anything, was what His Excellency desired."

Une didn't respond.

"I failed in my duties and will gladly resign immediately," Nichol said quietly. "But I am a soldier too. And I will not apologize for orders from the command structure."

"And those six Taurii you lost?"

"Five mobile suits, ma'am. The unit commander hasn't been confirmed. And I will assume full responsibility for all of them."

She stared at him. He couldn't tell if she would explode or smile, and it frightened him. "Tycho Nichol, you're dismissed from your command. Report back to _Barge _and await further instructions."

He saluted. "Yes, ma'am. I have only one thing to say, ma'am."

She raised an eyebrow.

Nichol swallowed. "Trowa Barton is an excellent pilot. But he is not at all fit to act as my replacement, Colonel."

"I'll be the judge of that, Nichol."

**V**

Safely beneath the grey surface of Luna and the Gundam attack a harmless memory, Tubarov Villemont watched his work steadily come together in the workshop in the Marius Crater Mobile Suit Works. He had barely had time to arrive from Luxembourg before overseeing the final assembly of the first units of OZ's first purpose-built mobile doll. A cursory glance at the unarmored frame betrayed this unique feature: in lieu of a cockpit module, the OZ-02MD had a man-size military bandwidth transmitter and receiver sitting on top of an OZ Type 02 Mobile Doll Combat Computer, in turn bolted directly to the casing for an ultracompact fusion reactor. When it received its titanium alloy airframe and Gundanium armored skin, the absence of cockpit hatch would probably be overlooked next to its unusual appearance: still a humanoid mobile suit, but distinctly designed for autonomous, unmanned combat. His antagonism towards Une aside, the technological fruits of 'Bliznets' were instrumental to developing a _true _mobile doll, rather than the autonomous drone aircraft-derived system on the Taurus, combined with the unpredictable and dangerous learning computer.

_Virgo, _the Virgin. Tubarov wasn't one for poetry, but even he found the name fitting. A precisely-made weapon, for the demands of a precise-waged war.

"God, it's already too top-heavy!" The chief engineer could overhear one of the technicians surveying the work so far through with a monocular. Next to him, gathered around the individual components, were the five captured Gundam designers, transferred to him from Une's control.

"Trust me, it'll work. Have a little faith," one of them, the apparent leader with the prosthetic eyes, said with a grin.

"I'll remind you that while these are for mass production, you needn't worry about costs! The resources of Outer Space are unlimited," Tubarov declared.

"Hmmph. He treats the colonies like they did in the old world, as something to be plundered!" the same designer muttered loudly.

"Let him be. We'll remind him of that one day," one of his compatriots, sitting in the seat of a mobile suit carrier truck.

"I'm sure you will," the same technician snapped in their direction, looking down from his binoculars. "How ironic. The colonies go to Earth to destroy as much as they can, and Earth goes to the colonies to build as much as they possible could. And you old men are in both sides of the coin."

"Whatever you're bickering about, shut it!" Tubarov ordered.

"It's this, the Gundam you've taken apart to steal for our technology," one of the designers explained, pointing at the tarp-covered wreck on the truck nearby. "It's flattering, actually. You still want this even after it's been trashed."

"That's ridiculous!" Tubarov replied. "We don't need another one of your ruined pet projects. Dispose of it if it's going to be a distraction."

"Yes sir, Chief Engineer, sir," the designer replied, mockingly.

Tubarov rolled his eyes. When completed, the mobile doll would mount a single, permanently-affixed short-barrel repeating beam cannon. Like Vayeate, its capacitors and transformers drew directly a secondary power plant carried in the right shoulder housing. Like the Mercurius, it featured an active protection system: four planetary defensors carried in sockets on the left shoulder. All Virgo mobile dolls would carry this same armament, though he was also thinking to the future, if a successor to the Virgo were needed, and programming had evolved to efficiently use multiple weapons. In the meantime, it established them as the obvious successors to Une's tandem prototypes, not the defeated Gundams.

The possibility occurred to Tubarov, and others working at Luna, that the Gundam designers might attempt to sabotage the war effort, either against the Gundams or against the Alliance, through their work. Simple and effective precautions were taken. The final Virgo design differed, subtly and unsubtly, from what the designers originally drew up, that in turn a response to Tubarov's own vision. Their role was conceptual as much as practical.

_Their expertise is valuable. But it's not indispensable. And contrary to what they might think, we're not stupid. And while only one or two pairs of tandem Gundams can be manufactured each month at Marius, soon hundreds of mobile dolls would be assembled on the lines, to be deployed all over Earth. While the Space Forces under Une fumble for solutions to their problems with D-120, my machines will wipe out every last shred of resistance on Earth, no matter whatever desperate measures the Alliance uses. _

He allowed himself a private smile. _That will be Operation 'Nova'._ As one former Alliance officer watched his dreams take shape in reality, another one watched his be steadily dismantled by logic as he shared them among the colonies.

"In the past, the colonies didn't have problems with their principles against Outer Space warfare. May I ask what has changed?"

Following its repulsion of OZ's attack force, Millardo Peacecraft had departed L1-D-120 for another colony on the edge of the Republic of Noventa that had flirted with both the Alliance and OZ politically, D-411. There he met in secret with the chief representative, a member of the colonial legislator and a mayor.

"A hundred years have since the colonies entered stability," the mayor explained calmly.

"Those concerns belong to a different age. Today, we can only avoid battle with a show of force."

The chief representative brought up a military report as a presentation on the main screen. "This this Sally Po, formerly a major in the Alliance Army Medical Service. Her 'Long March' rebel organization in Western China has opposed OZ. We also think she may possess two of the Gundams, Zero-One and Zero-Four. OZ's principle civilian backer, the Romefeller Foundation, is now the most powerful organization on Earth. We're wary of the Foundation."

He removed his glasses. "However, our self-protection is paramount. That's why we've chosen to accept OZ, it was the option that would best guarantee our safety. Armed struggle will continue on Earth, we can't just assume we won't be caught up in the crossfire here in space."

Millardo turned from the main screen. "OZ is keeping the Gundam designers in captivity. Those on Earth opposing OZ believe that OZ _alone _is changing the world into a dangerous place to live."

"I'd heard the engineers had already been executed," an official pointed out.

"We cannot maintain our dignity as a nation unless we have the strength to eliminate any rebel movements like those on Earth."

"Our decision hasn't changed," the chief representative repeated. "Please try and understand our reasoning, Ambassador Peacecraft."

Peacecraft seemed locked in thought for a minute before he responded finally. "I see. I thank you for your time."

The three officials rose as he departed and waited until he left to sit back down. "He makes a good case, but he must think we're delusional if we don't see that as many rebel factions on Earth are fighting national governments as they're fighting OZ."

The chief representative exhaled deeply. "He doesn't care. He knows what he wants, he just has to justify it to us." He put his hands together. "I've heard war materiel shipments to Luna from the rest of L1 have tripled since the N.E.P. was passed."

"People care as much about jobs as they do the war. And colonies about their food loan payments. These interest rates aren't going to stay low forever."

The mayor nodded. "I've heard the Romefeller Foundation's predicting an across-the-board increase. Too much fighting has shut down food production, and Earth gets first priority to its own grain production. Interest rates _are_ going to rise."

"That's the problem with men like Peacecraft," the representative explained. "They only think of one thing: OZ and war, which are interchangeable for them. Meanwhile the rest of us have to worry about little things like unemployment and famine."

**VI**

William O'Brien sat in on the transmission to his flight lieutenant at Dayton Air Force Base, part of the Ohio territory of the Pennsylvanian Commonwealth. He was surprised to see how grave he looked, considering how much success OZ had enjoyed turning back the Christian States invasion from the west. A few minutes listening in established why.

"_We've determined the biological agent was YO-448, a popular agent stored only in North America. So far, about sixteen hundred square kilometers outside New Jerusalem have been contaminated._"

"And you think they might use it here?"

"_Lieutenant, I'm not trying to start a panic, but you need to be prepared._"

He nodded. "I know, I wasn't suggesting that. I'll check up on our C-B-R-N equipment. And obviously our mobile suits are completely shielded. Thank you for the update."

The fuzzy video image saluted sharply and vanished, and O'Brien did the same as his CO turned.

"I bet you're glad to be here, Will. You can drink _and _you don't need to worry about shitting your intestines out from ricin poisoning," he pointed out, pushing his glasses up. "Excuse my language."

O'Brien nodded slowly. "Yes sir. Why do you think they did it?"

"The Alliance? Who knows. Maybe it was some other Utahan group. Whatever the case, it is delaying the fall of New Jerusalem." The flight lieutenant shook his head. "We need a longer campaign here like we need a hole in a bridge."

O'Brien nodded at the metaphor as the officer's computer console beeped again and its owner leaned over. "Outer Space, apparently."

"Should I leave, sir?"

"Don't bother," he said, pressing a key. "Wójcik here, who is this?"

"_Henry, it's Oliver. Am I coming through?_"

The officer needlessly leaned towards the monitor and raised his voice. "You are, but the signal isn't great! How are you out there? Is the Seventh Division treating you well?"

"_Well enough, Henry. How is Ohio?_"

"Hot and humid. What brings this call, where are you?"

"_A colony in L2, they rotate flight lieutenants in and out of this academy, keep a bunch of new faces for the militia recruits._"

The flight lieutenant dismissed O'Brien, who stood saluted and left, while keeping his eyes on the monitor. "That would explain the time lag."

"_Is it noticeable?_"

In Flight Lieutenant Bradley's office in a distant colony, the response came after a momentary pause. "_Yes. I thought you were on _Barge _with the rest of the Seventh Division._"

Bradley resisted the urge to tell him he'd seen be returning. "Truth be told, it's more comfortable out here."

"_Than _Barge?_ I would hope it's more comfortable than a thirty-year-old space fortress_," Wójcik replied, his image briefly overwhelmed by snowy static. "_How are you liking your new diamonds_?"

He smiled and touched his left uniform epaulet. "I'm not disliking them, even if it only so I could sit behind a desk for a few weeks," he chuckled when the door opened and a junior officer saluted.

"_Can you say that again? I missed that._"

Bradley looked up at the junior officer, then at the worsening video on his monitor. "There must be some a dropped signal relay or some cosmic interference. I'll speak to you again, Henry."

"_Powodzenia_," the other voice said before cutting out entirely.

"Is now a bad time, Flight Lieutenant?"

Bradley shook his head and stood up. "No, not at all, Miss…"

"Schbeiker sir," the young pilot officer explained.

"Ms. Schbeiker. How can I help you?"

The militia pilot in a colonial-cut hunter green uniform nodded and presented him with a maroon plastic binder, which he opened. "The applicants for next week's qualifying exams, sir."

"Thank you, I'll sign off on those," he said, sitting back down, opening the binder and taking out the filled-out sheets while leaving the blanks.

Schbeiker smile at him warmly. "If you don't mind me saying, you make a good desk jockey, sir."

He looked up at her, feigning distress while he handed back the binder. "Well, someone has to. The other flight lieutenants and captains have speeches to give and exercises to run." Not including himself, there were more than a half-dozen flight lieutenants from the Mobile Suit Troops and captains from the Space Navy at the now-reopened Alliance Academy. "Please don't tell any of them I said that."

"Of course not, sir."

"I don't like these new uniforms," Bradley muttered as he began reading each sheet.

"Really, sir? I like them."

He raise an eyebrow. "They don't remind you of the _ancient regime_?"

"Well, sir, everything starts from somewhere, doesn't it?"

Bradley waited for her to leave before falling back into his seat and shaking his head. "I really don't understand Colonials," he muttered.

In the academy's main concourse, Schbeiker shielded her eyes from the bright lights of the artificial sky visible through the bay windows. Past a trio of senior officers, a video monitor set to ESPAN replayed a speech given by a pro-OZ envoy from Luna.

"_Soon, we will no longer live within the threatening reach of D-120. With the help of Commander-in-Chief Treize Khushrenada and Colonel Une, this will mark the beginning of a new era in Outer Space._"

"What a bunch of crap," someone muttered. "They're the ones who planted the fear of war in everyone to begin with."

Schbeiker turned to the speaker: a Caucasian boy in dressed in black with sunglasses, reclining in a chair on the edge of the concourse. "That's not true," she countered, putting a hand on her hip. "The colonies have suffered a history of humiliation. We're ready to fight to protect ourselves now."

He looked at her over the rim of his sunglasses. "And who are you?"

**VII**

In the cockpit of her OZ-12SMS 'Taurus', Kaneshiro Kanna watched as a flight of three Taurii raced ahead of her own, firing from a loose delta formation, Colony L1-D-1777 looming before them in an otherwise dark patch of space. They unleashed a barrage on a minefield on the outermost perimeter of the colony, breaking off before the defensive fire began in retaliation.

"Mobile doll, move to cover the Winthrop Flight!"

Obediently, the third mobile suit in their flight left formation and move into position to distract the long-range defensive fire. The beam turrets on the defensive platform turned their attention to it and continued firing.

Winthrop Flight's leader settled into a new vector. "_Archer 1-3, get back into formation! Let the cruiser do its job!_"

"_Affirmative, sorry ma'am!_"

"_Archer 2-1, come in!_"

Kanna turned her head right in her cockpit, then checked her system readouts. "_Archer 2-1 to Archer 1-1, can you hear me?_"

"_Acknowledged. Kaneshiro, bug out and go around, heading zero-nine-for. Watch for stragglers._"

"_Affirmative. Archer 2-2, Archer 2-3, regroup on me_."

As Fight Officer Mazuri and the mobile doll closed in on her, she got a brief glimpse of OZSS _Europa, _BC-80_, _accelerating into position, its four massive double-barreled beam cannons turning a few degrees each. Immediately, they fired in two bursts, vertical and horizontal pairings sending bright, blinding streaks of yellow-white down in the direction of the colony. A number of defensive platforms exploded dozens of kilometers away.

"_Looks like that information from the Hundred-First Intelligence Squadron was accurate. The Alliance is rotating its peripheral defense from colony to colony._"

"Archer 2-2, cut the chatter," Kanna ordered, pressing a key on one of her MFDs and bringing up the communications controls. She switched to a point-to-point transmission. "Mazuri, were you able to find out what happened to Nichol?"

This response came back after a delay. "_I think so. Une sacked him_."

Despite herself, Kanna whispered. "You're kidding! Just for following orders?"

"_I don't think they stripped his rank, but he's now adjutant to Major Bremer on _Barge."

Kanna checked her artificial horizon before putting a gloved hand to her helmet. "Une's lost it. The commander-in-chief of OZ Space Forces is totally off her meds."

The _Europa _continued onwards, defensive fire bouncing harmlessly off its thick armor. Its anti-aircraft armament began raining fire directly ahead as the colony's defense fighters raced forward to meet it.

"_That may be true_," Mazuri admitted calmly. "_Let's just hope she's not needed._"

Racing ahead of them, the _Europa _dove at the colony like a bayonet, firing in all directions around it.

**VIII**

Sernan found Walker back on MO-V, in the long-range telecommunications room in the docks, a handset to his head.

"Yes sir. I understand, sir. I'll inform Sernan. Thank you sir."

"Who was that?" he asked, holding long rolls of component schematics in his arms.

"Lieutenant Colonel North. I'm being recalled to _Barge_."

"Oh I, see, that…wait, what? We just got here!"

"Not 'we', Lieutenant. Just myself."

Sernan processed this for a second. "Is something happening with the Seventh Division?" he asked urgently. "Is it 'Citadel'?"

"Say that a little louder, why don't you?" Walker asked, managing his sarcasm to sound very literal.

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Someone from Luna will be sent in my place, it shouldn't be an issue," Walker explained. "Good luck out here."

"And to you too, sir. I think you'll need it."

Sernan saluted and Walker saluted back, before leaping for a nearby guide rail. After a minute down the main corridor, he found Aisely and Bishop floating at a junction and waved.

"Lucille, you're here. I've been recalled to _Barge _by my superiors. You should see my replacement in the next few days. And please thank everyone for the hospitality," he explained as he floated by.

"Wait, what? Hold on!" Aisley shouted, just missing him as he floated by. "What's happening?"

"Military matters, I'm sorry I can't elaborate beyond that."

She looked at Bishop, who gave a distasteful shrug. "Well, some warning would have been nice!"

"As I said, I'm sorry, Lucille," he said, reaching another guide rail.

"Let him go," Bishop yelled at her. "That's how their operation works, don't you know? Someone says 'Jump!' and all of them climb over each other, asking 'How high?'."

"Well, if you know so much, what's going on?" Lucille asked.

Rani took a guide rail handle and sped off. "Don't ask, Lucille. Nothing good ever comes out of this sort of thing," she warned her coldly.

**IX**

The penthouse on the top floors of the Barton Building gave an unparalleled view of the curving cityscape of Colony L2-X-18999, a sea of construction cranes and concrete avenues. Dekim Barton enjoyed the view, which informed him of the colony's status in an rather artistic manner since the Barton Building's completion.

His granddaughter, Mariemaia, liked it for different reasons. The penthouse had been her home ever since she left the private nursery on the same colony; Mariemaia Barton was one of the first children to be born on L2-X-18999 following its completion in AC 189. It was elegantly furnished, a comfortable place for a child to grow up in the care of her governess, her nanny, and the staff of her grandfather.

"Ms. Mariemaia, if you'd like, I can take this meeting at work," Dekim Barton told her softly, smoothing a crease in his grey suit.

"No, grandfather, I think you're right: I should be more involved in our family's work," she replied politely. Her grandfather always called her 'Miss Mariemaia'. She sat in a large red sitting chair in the study, her grandfather standing by the doorway, arms crossed. One of the household staff entered the room in her black-and-white maid's uniform.

"Sir, ma'am, she's arrived."

"Send her in," Dekim instructed.

Moments later, one of Dekim's subordinates appeared. Everyone Mariemaia saw personally, except for her grandfather, could be divided into one of two groups: her grandfather's subordinates working in the Barton Building, or her grandfather's subordinates working outside of it. She understood that there was a world beyond these two groups of people, she just had no access to it for now.

This particular subordinate Mariemaia remembered because she was quite beautiful, nearly as much as one of the women you could see on advertising billboards from the penthouse. She was very tall, even next to her grandfather who towered over many people, with long, light-brown wavy hair, and she was very fashionable with her expensive clothes and thin glasses.

She very seldom spoke, though Dekim forced her to when she appeared. 'Maya' they called her. Mariemaia was smart enough to know that was not really her name, but a pseudonym, as a lot of her grandfather's outside employees went by. Despite being difficult to deal with, Dekim held Maya up as an example to some apparently less effective subordinates, which was why he was short with her frequently. She remembered her grandfather had once given one of his outside subordinates an earful over the piercing on her lip, something he informed her not to have on in his presence, and compared her to Maya.

The tall woman entered the room briskly, put her hands in front of her pinstripe miniskirt and bowed at Dekim before noticing Mariemaia. Her eyes flickered in surprise and she repeated the procedure, then stood there, silent.

"Well?" he asked finally, annoyed.

Maya clenched her delicate jaw and then spoke. "I…he hasn't responded," she answered in her usually introverted manner.

"Why not?"

Maya looked unable to answer this and instead took a step towards Dekim, flipping her mobile open and pointing the screen at him.

"What does this mean?" he asked impatiently.

"He has…received my messages, but he isn't answering."

"And why not?" he asked, hands on his hips.

"I don't…know," she admitted finally.

_If I weren't here, Dekim would be yelling much more, _Mariemaia thought, smiling at the tall woman from her oversized chair. Instead, her grandfather took one step towards her, causing Maya to immediately retreat back towards the door two steps, pressing her mobile against her breast with both hands.

"And aside from standing here, what do you intend to do about it?" he barked.

Maya stopped shaking and said something inaudible.

"Speak up!"

"I know…that Oswald Walker left _Barge_…a few days ago."

Dekim raised an eyebrow. "And how do you know that?"

She turned her mobile back towards him, but kept it held close. "Message timestamp," she whispered. "If it is this long…it must be Luna or beyond."

"What was he moved for? On assignment?"

She shook her head, wavy hair moving about. "No, the rest of his unit…is still at _Barge_."

"So he went out alone. Another one of his inspection visits, maybe?" Dekim asked rhetorically. "Since you seem able to keep an eye on this particular engineer, you'll keep doing just that. Keep a tab on his movements. He could still be useful for the future, and in the short run, I think the Noventans would be open to negotiating if we had a technically-trained officer from OZ in our corner."

He regarded her with one eye. "It looks like you can be trusted not to act without permission from me."

She nodded quickly, and Dekim gestured at her while turning to Mariemaia.

"Ms. Mariemaia, I think we can trust _her _to provide a solution to our _ownership _problem, as well as a way to make the Republic of Noventa more open to negotiations. What do you think of that?"

Shifting in the chair, Mariemaia put both hands on the large arm rests and smiled. "I would like that very much, Dekim."

**X**

There was a steady downpour over Luxembourg City, but it didn't stop traffic in and out of Finder Airport. As a transorbital shuttle taxied through the rain, Eva Cebotari stood in the shelter near the terminal exit, watching a detail of airmen ran through the rain towards the mobile stairway. As the Tupolev shuttle came to a halt, its door opened along the stairway, and a Space Forces officer cradled another officer down the stairs. He was huddled over, halfway out of uniform, under a wool passenger blanket.

On the other side of the terminal, Edward Parsons, one raincoat in a squad of eight, splashed through puddles on the way to an identical transorbital shuttle. He was the only one not carrying a compact machine pistol.

"Flight Lieutenant Lee!" he said through the bullhorn he was holding. "This is the Military Commissariat! We've grounded the spacecraft, now come out and surrender!"

One of the armed men leaned towards him and whispered in his ear. "Right, right," Parsons muttered, before turning to the bullhorn. "Lee, you've been charged by the Grand Ducal Police with destruction of property and the rape of a Luxembourg civilian. You're not leaving Luxembourg, much less Earth!"

The group kept staring at the shuttle as the rain continued. Nothing happened, even as they could see the pilot and co-pilot inside staring back at them.

Parsons tapped his foot against the ground impatiently. "OZ has waived all rights to extraterritoriality! You are not a marine, this is not Okinawa! Now get out of the shuttle or we will drag you out, slowly and painfully!"

"At least we know he's not armed," one man muttered, wiping the water from his eyes.

"Tell yourself that," another replied, clenching his weapon. "Ever stormed an aircraft before?"

"Would you kindly shut up?" Parsons asked, cocking is head and scowling.

"The door's opening!" another pointed and yelled.

In short order, Lee descended down the stairway, dropped his luggage, then stood still as they descended upon him. Parsons took him by the collar of his uniform, yanking him down to his own height before brandishing his sidearm with his other hand.

"You know, I was looking forward to having these good men here drag you out," he scowled humorously. "I've had a very boring day."

Lee shrugged as one man frisked him quickly before kicking him in the back of his legs. He fell knees first into the puddle beneath him and his wrists were cuffed.

"Nothing on him, sir."

"Of course," Parsons muttered. He looked calmly, shook the rain from his sleeves, before kicking Lee in the back quickly. The flight lieutenant grunted but kept his balance, while Parsons leaned over, squeezed his shoulder, and with some effort tore off his right rank epaulet. Parsons glanced at the bit of gold and maroon thread and felt, squeezing it between his fingers, before tossing it aside.

"Give him to the Grand Ducal Police, and thank their captain for his patience," Parsons said, making a line for the nearest shelter fro the rain.

The raincoat-wearing officer saluted. "Yes sir!"

Parsons sat down on a bench, wiping some of the rain from his face and grunting. He didn't care for the weather.

"You seem to be doing well," he heard from behind. Parsons turned to see Dr. Cebotari, smiling at him.

"Well, the fun thing about human scum is that no one cares how you handle them," Parsons replied matter-of-factly.

"Looks that way," she replied in a deep, breathy tone as Lee was stood up, bruised and wet, and walked towards the terminal.

"What are you doing here, ma'am?"

She looked back at him. "Come with me."

"To Outer Space? No thanks, I like my sanity. It's one thing I have," he hissed.

She stood upright, held her arms apart and began walking away. "Have it your way. Keep fighting the good fight, Lieutenant."

Eva took a dozen footsteps before Parsons looked up, his hood dripping. "Are they going to end this farce with D-120?" he asked aloud.

She turned to him briefly, putting a finger in front of her crimson lips, before turning away. Parsons gave a sigh and reached his pocket, taking out his rectangular leather-bound ID book. Flipping it open, he watched raindrops slip past the plastic coating over his black-and-white service photograph. Parsons grunted, flipped his military ID closed and walked back out into the rain.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_The Grand Ducal Police is Luxembourg's main law enforcement agency, just like its name would suggest. Plus, it sounds like something you might find in a Gundam Wing sidestory, doesn't it? _

_I actually really enjoyed writing this tiny bit of Mariemaia Barton, I was definitely looking forward to it for a while, given how much I've written in Treize in the past (and how little he's appeared recently). It was also fun to have the infamous Virgo Mobile Doll finally make an appearance, from the tech-side of things. _


	38. A Simple Test

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 38 — A Simple Test**

_9 September, AC 195, inside L1-D-120, Republic of Noventa_

Major Umar Khattāb of Alliance Space Forces, still in his olive drab normal suit, posed for the video crew in front of the wreck the engineers had just dragged in: a largely undamaged OZ-12SMS 'Taurus', taken from the raiding party on the colony just days ago. He put on a triumphant smile and tried to assume as heroic a pose as possible, holding his helmet at his side.

"Why are we bothering the major with this right now?" the crew chief asked, annoyed.

"You'll see," one his Khattāb's wingmen said while removing his own helmet.

"Major, sir, congratulations on this daring victory!" a reporter said, followed by her news crew, complete with a logo-wearing boom microphone operator.

"Thank you, we're…quite pleased."

"Our audience, of course, has been following your exploits, but can you brief us in your own words?"

Khattāb glanced over his shoulder at a captain wearing a service uniform, who tapped his wristwatch discreetly, and then turned back with a wide smile. "Well, we've successfully captured an intact example of OZ's most advance mobile weapon, the Taurus mobile doll. We've captured other OZ mobile suits in the past, but none that differ from the weapons in our own arsenal."

"Well, that's a lie," the crew chief whispered to Khattāb's wingman, who chuckled. The two were still snickering when they spotted a woman in civilian attire entering the hangar and saluted quickly.

"And this weapon will…?"

"Aid us in our defense of the Republic's territory, yes," Khattāb finished for the reporter. "This is quite a coup for us against OZ."

"Thank you so much for your time, Major Khattāb, I don't think we can overstate what an honor it is to meet…probably the greatest war hero of the Space Mobile Suit Troops," the reporter began.

He spotted something over her shoulder. "Actually, that's not really true. The _real _greatest hero of the Space Troops, if I can take a moment of your time, is right over there…" he said, raising an arm and pointing. "Captain Soletta, Captain, if you'd please!"

Wearing a tight, short-sleeve sweater and her hair in an elastic band, Carmen Soletta shook her head and held up her hands, even as the major kept beckoning up, before relenting and walking across the gantry.

"Here we have a real warrior, Captain Soletta, even if she doesn't look like it," Khattāb announced, throwing an arm over the younger officer. "She's gone out every time I've been sent out, and more! A few days ago, she saved the life of thousands of our comrades escaping from Earth in low orbit. _This _is who you should be interviewing."

"You're too kind, Um-…Major Khattāb," Soletta said modestly, holding up both hands as the boom mike nearly hit her in the forehead.

"No, no, don't be modest. I'd say Captain Soletta here is the best pilot in this colony. She can certainly fly circles around old men like me, and she doesn't need a bunch of medals to do it."

"I don't…" Soletta insisted, before the reporter cut off her with a stream of questions.

When the news team left, Soletta heaved a sigh and sat down on a nearby equipment trunk, holding her forehead with one hand. "I really wish you wouldn't do that, Umar."

Khattāb smiled from ear to ear. "It's part of your duty, Captain. And I meant every word, Bella."

'Bella' looked up at him and shook her head, as the crew chief approached holding a tablet computer. "Now that we're done with that nonsense, let's open 'er up. The demolitions and chemicals scan came up clear?"

"For the last time, Chief, yes, they did. Nothing out of the ordinary," another technician announced, standing directly in front of the pock-marked cockpit hatch, holding a powerful sensor beacon directly up to it. His crew chief swiped his finger along the tablet, and an access panel popped open on its hinges before falling off. The technician then pressed three LED-lit buttons inside the recess, causing the cockpit hatch to open after the brief whine of hydraulic pistons. A blood-stained sky blue normal suit fell out, clanging against the metal floor. The crew chief jumped.

"Holy shit!" he gasped.

"_That's _why we waited till they left," Khattāb's wingman explained. "Don't worry, scanning showed he couldn't possibly be alive. He must have died from concussion."

"Scanning didn't say anything about a corpse!"

Soletta stared in disbelief. "It had a pilot. I thought this was a mobile doll!"

"It is. And I was fighting it in mobile doll mode," Khattāb explained. "Captain?" he asked the officer in uniform, who was leaning over the body as it leaked for tears in the suit.

"The pilot must have either died or lost consciousness very suddenly," he said, examining the corpse. "Perhaps from g-forces. When that happened, his normal suit detected it, and his mobile suit switched to mobile doll mode. The rest of this damage was postmortem, if he did die, probably from shots you made at his cockpit."

"He was the best pilot I'd encountered," Khattāb admitted. "He must have overexerted himself after disabling the safety redlines. He scored six kills before we got there, and with the mobile dolls he wiped out another three and two frigates."

"I don't see any unit or rank insignia," Soletta said. "He must have removed them before going into combat."

"Normal mobile doll mode has anti-capture mechanisms. Even if you were able to disable one, which is hard enough, they have a self-destruct mode, a small charge enough to destroy reactor, the weapons and all other electronics. But if the pilot is incapacitated, however, the mobile doll mode doesn't activate that function."

"Because the pilot might still be alive," Soletta finished for him. "Which is how we've captured our first Taurus. How do you know all this?"

"Intelligence Squadron _does _mean something, ma'am," the captain replied, rising back to his feet.

Soletta looked at Khattāb. "What are you smiling about?"

"I'm relieved, frankly. Earlier I thought I was fighting a genius mobile doll. Instead, it was just a good pilot OZ threw away."

**II**

Surrounded by a fleet of smaller supply ships, the OZSS _Over the Rainbow _made its final burn to match its orbit to that of Space Fortress _Barge_. EBC-31 was large enough to cast a shadow across one side of the space fortress has it drifted in front of Sol.

Flight Lieutenant Ogasawara sat just outside a maintenance hatchway near a major hangar door, her normal suit tethered to a socket.

"_Good to be back?_" Flight Officer Tsujimoto asked her over the radio.

"_Good to get off this flying relic finally,_" she countered, as others ships—all faster and more modern—maneuvers between EBC-31 and the fortress. "_Just watch: the second we get in range of Midway, Alliance guns are going to cut this thing to ribbons._"

Nabiki laughed. "_Yeah, they probably will._"

There was a tone on the channel they shared. "_That would be the Sun Queen, looks like her new toy finally arrived from Luna._"

"_I think I'll take a look_," she said, reaching into her utility pouch and taking out a monocular, giving her tether a yank and then leaping up the side wall of the ship. She reached the edge of the hull facing along the dorsal superstructure just in time to spot a long exhaust trail left by a single mobile suit carrier, designed in sled form-factor, carrying two mobile suits through her monocular.

Inside _Barge_, Flight Officers Kaneshiro and Mazuri sat, while Pilot Officer Bishop floated nervously.

"Something on your mind?" Kanna asked finally, leaning forward in her seat, legs apart.

"I got another letter from my parents—my sister is still out of contact, it's been more than week now."

Kanna whistled sympathetically as Dac turned.

"It's not that bad, really. She takes classified jobs all the time, and she can't call from them, even if she has the opportunity," he admitted. "But they're usually not in space."

"I'm sure your sister's fine, Dac. It sounds like she can take care of herself, right Ajay?" she asked, looking to her left. Mazuri was still immersed in a message he was reading on his mobile, so she gave him a good elbowing that almost threw him from his seat. "_Right, Ajay?_"

"Right, I'm sure she is," he said quickly, holding his side.

"What are you so focused on?" Dac asked, floating over.

"Knowing him, it must be some pair of legs on Luna," Kanna teased, reaching over for his mobile.

Mazuri obstructed her long arm. "I'll have you know, she's more than a pair of legs. She's got a great set of _chombo _too." He blinked and translated the Swahili for them, "Jugs."

"No, we got that, _Wordsworth_," Kanna fired back before overpowering him easily and snatching the mobile from his hand.

"Hey!"

Kanna whistled again, this time differently. "Wow, she's pretty hot!" she said, before tossing the mobile over to Dac, who caught it in mid-float.

"I'll say. Does she do anything besides overfilling a bikini?"

"She's a glamour model or something," Mazuri replied, a devious glimmer in his eyes as he wound his legs back and leapt at Dac. He could much more easily take his mobile back from the Ontarian youth than the Ryukyuan woman, and did just that.

"Hey!"

Kanna gave another whistle, this one ending on a sharp tone, and the two turned to see one of the doors to the adjacent hangars open. Walker passed through, holding his bag, and smiled at them.

"Welcome back, Flight Lieutenant, sir!" Kanna shouted as rehearsed.

"Hello, Kanna," he replied. His usual thoughtful impartiality was clear in his voice as he briefly glanced at Mazuri and Dac, tucking their tunics back under their trousers.

"Welcome back, sir."

"Yeah, what he said, sir."

"Thank you. So nothing happened while I was gone?"

"No, not at all, sir."

"Good. I think we've got a briefing waiting for us. It seems like it's finally time we all got back to work."

When Walker and the others reached the briefing room, he found himself surrounded by more officers from the 7th Strategic Division than he'd seen since the divisional inauguration on Luna. He knew there were 216 mobile suits in the entire division, and only a portion of them were housed on _Barge_, alongside separate engineering battalions. Each squadron was given a line of folding chairs to sit in, since floating about in low gravity would have made for a poor briefing.

Walker's team took their seats. In front of his row was Dmitry Chernenko. To his right was Omar Clarkson, with his stern-looking mustache. Behind Walker sat Flight Lieutenant Khanum, a handsome Kirghiz officer with dark, straight hair. Next to his group sat Flight Lieutenant Winthrop, a short-haired blond woman with thin-rimmed glasses and a British Order of Bath hanging from her neck. Next to her group was Flight Lieutenant Kim, with a bandage on a wound on the side of his head but otherwise unbothered. At the front of the room, next to Lieutenant Colonel North, was one his deputies, Squadron Commander Sun. Sun was a broad-shouldered, well-groomed Chinese officer whom Walker had never met before, apparently his unit was stationed on the _Sarajevo_, a light carrier in _Barge_'s vicinity. He could overhear a conversation between the two.

"Chuang's waiting on _us_, you say?" North asked Sun, referring to the commander of the 2nd Space Division. "Well, I'd hate to keep the man waiting. Let's start."

He pulled down on the hem of his red uniform tunic and signaled for the screen behind him turn on. The lights dimmed and the screen showed a scaled rendering of the space between Earth and Luna.

"After some admitted delay, we are now commencing the Noventa Strategic Offensive Operation. Our intelligence gathered from the past weeks will allow for a direct and lethal strike directly at the enemy center at L1-D-120, bypassing its neighboring colonies. Even then, L1-D-120 has had adequate time to prepare a defense and reinforce its own local forces waiting to confront us. The space around that one colony represents the most heavily defended area in the entirety of Outer Space."

North gestured at the display changed, zooming in on the cluster of colonies that made of the Republic of Noventa. "We will not be counting on support fire from _Barge _for numerous reasons, including the fear of collateral damage."

Some grumbling could be heard through the room.

"The General Staff have outlined a battle plan in order to prevent being bogged down in these defenses. This is a joint operation with the First and Second Divisions: all three divisions, supported by the Space Navy, will directly engage the colony, forcing an Alliance counterattack from D-2110, D-441 and so forth. The Fourth Division, newly arrived and based out of Luna, will remain in reserve. Amid the counterattack, the Seventh Division, with the highest amount of total firepower available to it, will move further through the perimeter and directly invade D-120's interior zones."

There as more nervous chatter, causing North to roll his eyes subtly. Kim's hand shot up.

"Yes?"

"Why the Seventh, sir? Is the difference in divisional strength and firepower really that pronounced?"

_That's a good question_, Walker thought.

North held back a sigh. "Contingencies have been drafted for a breakthrough from any one of the divisions, but all our prior simulations have come to the same conclusion: the Seventh Division is most likely to breakout first."

He turned back to the screen, which had three set of jagged lines indicating the course of the divisions into the colony area. "At that point, Operation 'Citadel' will begin. Supported by separate battalions and other units, whatever troops in the division that are able to will directly enter D-120 and proceed to secure the strategic zones, starting with the weather control center…"

In the briefing room aboard the _Over the Rainbow_, Lieutenant Colonel Soris Armonia stood in front of a similar screen, joined by her younger sister. Before them, still in their sky blue and violet normal suits, sat most of the pilots of the OZ 1st Recon Battalion, their distinctive red-and-gold shoulder patches identifying them.

Lady Soris pointed to an area almost halfway between C-102 and D-120, marked with a few small points. "This is Midway, or as the Noventans call it, the Ventei Line. It's a debris field, ninety percent of which are the remains of a colony destroyed by a meteor shower in A.C. 099, the remainder of which is largely an Alliance minefield and remote gun network. It serves as the unofficial border between the republic and the rest of Area 'D'. The prerequisite of 'Citadel' is to clear that field for a major thrust into Alliance space."

Standing off to her side, Luna Armonia cleared her throat softly and Soris glanced at her for a moment.

"Also, I personally won't be joining the division into combat for the Noventa Strategic Offensive Operation," she admitted.

The body of pilots in front of her glanced at her incredulously, excluding one sitting at the front row, who crossed her arms and closed her eyes in consternation.

"Ogasawara will be the commander in the field," Soris announced after a pause.

Her eyes still closed, Ogasawara raiser her arm and blurted out, "Baroness, ma'am, are you sure that's wise? Going from the battle plan, it sounds like battalion cohesion is going extremely important, even before beginning 'Citadel'. The loss of the commander in the field could be a serious problem."

"Which is why I've chosen you, Flight Lieu-ten-nant O-ga-sa-wa-ra," she said, emphasizing each syllable carefully.

"Yes, your Ladyship," the other replied rather curtly, lowering her hand, eyes still closed.

"Moving on," Soris continued. "Luna will now address the precise details of the planned insertion into L1-D-120. Luna?"

The younger Armonia sister stepped forwardly briskly and the image behind her change to a cross-section of a Stanford torus space colony. "Aside from the geographic information made available to all Mobile Suit Troops, all of you have received confidential details on our best intelligence concerning the precise layout of defenses over the colony's internal airspace. Despite the urge to share this to the other pilots who will also participate in 'Citadel', you are to keep this information to yourself for the time being. Colony L1-D-120's defensive layout has remained a classified secret since before the declaration of the Republic, and with…"

Back on _Barge_, inside the Operations Room belonging to the Colony and Asteroid Strike Troops, Major Eva Cebotari and Lieutenant Edward Parsons stood alongside the large, muscular CAST commandos gathered around a HALO station. Even without their armored spacesuits, the large men dwarfed them.

Warrant Officer Cameron gestured at part of the hologram with an open hand. "According to the interrogations of both Andrew Schmidt from D-1307 and the captive officers from the Hundred-First Intelligence Squadron from C-421, the ex-Alliance has highly accurate intelligence on the enemy order of battle and the composition of whatever forces that could be brought to bear in 'Citadel'. By contrast, our own intelligence on the Alliance order of battle is extremely poor, and we have only a basic assumption as to what defenses have been established both inside and outside the colony."

Certain sections of the colony structure were highlighted in red. "That's where we, and you, come in. CAST will be infiltrating two full companies of men into the 'D' Area colonies, including most of a company into the belly of the beast. Thirty officers from the Military Commissariat will be joining us."

Cameron's nearby smiled slyly at Cebotari. "You picked a hell of a time to return to Outer Space, ma'am."

"Trust me, Earth was so boring I wouldn't have it any other way," she replied breathily with a her own sly smile. Parsons smirked as he leaned to get a closer look at the individual blocks of the colony.

"I know how we'll be getting out," he said, shooting a glance at the assault rifles each CAST operative wore. "But how do you plan to get us in? Without giving the whole thing away."

"Ma'am?" Cameron asked.

"Apparently, our counterparts in Outer Space have forged passable IDs among the labor influx for the area. The Alliance isn't counting on small human infiltrators," Eva explained.

"So I guess we'll only know if they don't end up shooting us at the immigration desks," Parsons mused. This got a laugh from the commandos.

Elsewhere in _Barge_, North was wrapping up his own briefing.

"The Noventa Strategic Offensive Operation will commence at midnight, 12 September. Operation 'Citadel' will begin midnight, 13 September. You have three days in the meantime: some of you have existing orders for the field, the rest of you should get some rest while remaining on standby." North put his hands together behind his back. "Until then, good luck."

While the other officers dispersed, Chernenko tapped Walker with his elbow as North approached them. The message on Chernenko's face was clear: _great, he wants something. _

"Walker, Chernenko, I have something for specific for both of you right now. You know the _Rio de Janeiro_?"

Chernenko gave North a very sour glance. "No, I don't sir. Walker?"

"The _Rio de Janeiro _isa_ São Paulo-_class light cruiser, CL-113," Walker offered as Chernenko threw up his arms.

"That's right. Since the Alliance sank the _Goiás_, it and the _Santa Catarina _are the last of its class in operation. The _Rio_'s engines have been stripped for the _Santa Catarina_, and it's being converted into stationary gun platform and hangar, towed by the Engineer Corps into C-102's locality. You'll use your mobile suits to move it into final position at C-102's defensive line."

"Yes sir!" both officers replied.

"Then you'll regroup with the rest of the Seventh Division with the fleet for the offensive on Midway. Chernenko will take lead."

"Yes sir," Chernenko replied, holding back the sarcasm.

"Enjoy it—this is the last 'gimme' assignment you'll get," North warned them with a smile. At the same time aboard the _Over the Rainbow_, Lady Soris spoke to Emi privately after the other pilots dispersed.

"I'm not crazy about this favor, ma'am," she made clear to the Baroness of Oviedo, sitting on the top of the back of a seat, legs crossed.

"Come on, _Jun_," Soris teased. "You'll be as good a field officer as I ever was. Probably better."

"Yeah, right." She turned and opened a single eye. "Field grade?"

"I want you checked out for squadron commander. How long have you been a flight lieutenant? Two years now?"

Emi gave a defiant laugh. "Good luck clearing that."

"Making the legendary Jun Hono a field grade officer? That won't be a problem, right Luna?" Soris asked, leaning in the direction of her sister, who apathetically shrugged back.

"Who'll be doing the interview? You?" Emi asked after standing up.

"I doubt I'd be considered an unbiased party. The General Staff has someone else in mind."

"Like who?"

**III**

"_One last burn, Liu—adjust your pitch by three degrees, then burn for another twelve meters-per-second_," Chernenko ordered.

From the cockpit of his OZ-12SMS 'Taurus', Walker watched as Liu's combat engineers slowly moved CL-113 into position 8000 meters off C-102, matching the colony's orbit. The Space Leo Troops, working as improvised tugs, made their careful burn before killing their thrust again.

"Checking your trajectory, standby." Walker inputted the additional data with the keys along the sides of the cockpit's right-hand MFD, combining them with what he received over datalink. "Orbits appeared match, with only a zero-point-zero-five percent drift. C-102's tugs will hand it in from here."

"_Spade Flight, you're free to go, thanks for your help._"

"_Acknowledged, Archer Actual_," Liu replied as his Leo Troops changed their headings and departed.

"_Beagle Actual, go ahead and return colony side to report with local defense. I'll stay out here," _Chernenko informed him, sounding irritated.

"Affirmative," Walker replied as he entered fighter mode.

"_You know, I used to be in First Recon?_" Chernenko asked, defeat entering his voice. "_Now here I am, dragging defunct cruisers around colonies._"

"I know, Archer Actual."

It took Walker less than an hour to land, disembark, change out of his normal suit and back into his uniform to meet Kanna and the others in the central hangar. Despite the planned secrecy of both the Noventa Strategic Offensive Operation and 'Citadel', there was already a decent showing of the press around the legation grounds.

"How's the _Rio_?" Dac asked, raising his voice. "In normal words, non-engineering please."

"In position around the colony, though I'm not sure how much good it'll do as a defense platform," he replied, yelling to be heard over the sounds of reconstruction and repairs from the mobile doll sabotage weeks earlier.

"We could cripple it in one shot from a beam cannon, right? But the Alliance doesn't have mobile weaponry with that kind of firepower," Mazuri yelled.

"But they do have battlecruisers," Kanna warned as they crossed through one armored bulkhead to another one that was quieter. "One shot from the guns on a _Ganymede-_class, and that ship is sunk. I'd hate to be the poor saps stuck manning it if the Alliance ever counterattacks this far out."

"A good reason to leave it to the colonial militia," Mazuri said grimly. "Where to now? The legation?"

Walker nodded. "I should report to Colonel Une as well as Colonel North."

"Great. I've been waiting all day for someone to get their ass chewed out," Kanna muttered.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing, sir!"

The four sat together in an armored limousine that crossed through the orderly streets of OZ's host space colony. "So, they won't be using mobile dolls?" Dac asked.

"Not the ones we're used to," Walker said.

"Remember all those holes in the hangar? That's what happened when one saboteur hacked the 'learning' computers for the Taurus mobile doll system. I've heard the system's been severely curtailed since then," Mazuri added, resting his head and his arm.

"Right, no _true _autonomous deployment, they're saying." Kanna leaned back and stretched her arms as far as she could inside the cabin. Her uniform conformed to her chest as she grunted. "When we were running drills with Winthrop, you could see it."

Walker nodded, leaning out of the way of Kanna's big chest and arms on the seat. "Exactly." _And that new mobile fortress won't be complete in time for it either. _

"By the way, sir, what did you mean by that?" Dac asked.

"By what?'

"Not the one's we're used to."

"_Akisamiyo!_" Kanna snapped. "Let it go, Dac, it was just a turn of phrase!"

Dac blinked as they shifted in their seats, the car coming to a halt. "What, what did I do?"

The car had stopped in front of a traffic bottleneck near the security checkpoint along the legation's outer wall.

"God, what is it now?" Kanna groaned, apparently uncomfortable.

"Sorry, ma'am, the traffic's backed up! Lot of people!"

"It's probably nothing," Mazuri assured her. "Maybe a bomb-thrower or two."

"That's fine, we'll walk," Walker shouted towards the driver after shooting Mazuri a warning glance. The four opened the doors began leaving. It was barely ten meters to the security checkpoint on foot.

Outside the car, the cause of the congestion was evident: a body of uniformed and badge-wearing members of the press had been loitering around the security checkpoint, equipment in tow, and turned their glance to the officers exiting the car.

"Must be worried about the war," Mazuri said.

"I'd be too!" Dac replied as he forced his way into the crowd.

One particular woman with a small microphone turned directly to Walker and her eyes lit up. With her free hand, she grabbed her teammate by the collar of his uniform and dragged him forward. "Sir! Lieutenant Walker, sir, can we have a moment of your time?"

Kanna rolled her eyes as Walker half-shielded his face with an arm. "How'd they recognize you?"

"I have no idea."

"Sir, would you care to say anything on the rumors that Zechs Merquise has returned and is fighting on the opposition!"

Walker looked up as Dac winced and shook his head. Mazuri stared around. "We should have stayed in the car."

"Sir!" the dogged reporter cried out. "Sir, can you comment on the rumor that Lieutenant Nichol was relieved from his command because of comments he made about Zechs Merquise's new allegiances."

Walker gave a sigh in disgust and then turned to the journalist. "_Flight Officer _Nichol has been moved to a command aboard _Barge_. If you have any questions about an alleged Zechs Merquise, you should direct them to Ambassador Une," he said stiffly.

"Lieutenant, we have information suggesting you are the last subordinate of Zechs Merquise still in the military."

Another reporter shoved past her, holding his microphone. "Sir, what about the rumors of nuclear weapons being brought to bear against D-120?"

_What, they couldn't find Noin? _"I have only one thing to tell you: we are here for the sole purpose to secure the safety of the population of the C-102, which is a likely target of Alliance retribution and well within the reach of their fleet. Excuse me!"

The four finally made it to the security checkpoint, as Kanna handily forced both reporters back with one long arm, grinning at them. The MPs verified their identities and scanned them before letting them pass through.

"Well, that was fun. And people say the free press is overrated," Dac joked.

"Did you hear that comment about nuclear weapons?" Kanna whispered to Walker, who nodded back.

"I've got a few questions for Nichol, frankly," Walker replied when one of his pockets vibrated. He fished out his mobile and glanced at the screen briefly.

"Missed call?"

"No, nothing," he assured her.

**IV**

Still incarcerated, Duo Maxwell stood defiantly in front of the opaque CCTV camera housing, hands still cuffed. The spacious holding he shared with his fellow Gundam pilot, Chang Wufei, was intended for at least a dozen prisoners and had everything expected: toilets, sinks, shower heads and drains, and a complete lack of privacy.

"Hey, _jerks!_ I know you can hear me! What the heck's going on here?" He stamped his feet angrily.

"Could you be any louder?" Chang asked from the spot on the brushed metal floor where he was resting.

"I'm sure you guys are getting a kick out of this, but damn it, stop ignoring me!" Maxwell shouted at the camera housing. He glanced over at his compatriot. "How can you be so calm?"

"How can you be so annoying?" Chang countered. "So they stopped with those annoying interrogations and interviews. Why don't you just enjoy them?"

"No way, man. Something's going down! This place is under lockdown now, and I demand to know why!" Maxwell screeched, turning back to the camera housing.

In the first of the two security rooms that constantly watched the two captives on CCTV, the security officers studied Maxwell's energetic and erratic behavior.

"What's he going on about?"

"Normally around this time of day, right before their dinner rations, we grab the shorter one for a short interview and checkup," a noncommissioned office explained.

"And we're not doing that now?"

"No, sir. The whole district's on full alert. If those two are going to try something, now's not the time."

Far away, on a highly-elliptical orbit from third Lagrange Point, Maya Barton sat in a passenger shuttle, mobile in her hand. She had sent Flight Lieutenant Walker a half-dozen new messages requesting he answer her previous messages, none of which had gotten a response. Though she was not one to show emotional distress like this, his intransience was causing her a lot of problems.

She quickly thumbed her mobile, scrolling through the images she'd taken with her mobile's digital camera over the last few weeks: none of them of a personal nature, all relating to her work for the Barton Foundation. Some of them were Oswald Walker, around the time of their meeting. Others were of Captain Schmidt, the Alliance pilot who'd crashed in L1-D-1307, after the Barton Foundation had gained access to him. Still others were of mobilizing Alliance troops in the Republic of Noventa.

"Miss, would you like something to drink?"

The flight attendant had eventually worked up the nerve to confront the tall, fashionably-dressed woman who was the lone passenger in the shuttle cabin, and had not said a single word since she had boarded. Maya stared at her over the rims of her rectangular glasses and shook her head.

"Oh, okay then." The flight attendant shuffled off nervously. Maya looked back at her mobile, the screen changing again. This one was not of a photo she'd taken, but one she'd found on the Network—a uniquely-preserved Confucian temple in a colony at the fifth Lagrange Point. She thumbed her mobile again, and the screen changed to a short message she'd been writing.

**Mr. Li, you have the Foundation's blessing: appeal your case to OZ, with their agreement, Song will finally be able to depose Master Long. When he succeeds, the Foundation will force him to appoint you as successor. We see now that you are correct, and that Long's stronghold on the colony has gone too far. **

With a click, Maya sent the message out, where it would be relayed by numerous communications satellites thousands of kilometers ahead to her destination.

**V**

Having briefed Lady Une, Walker remained on C-102 with the rest of his unit, awaiting further orders from the standby barracks. Kanna, wearing her tunic around her waist, looked up at him.

"What do you think that reporter meant, 'nuclear weapons', _Taichō_?"

He thought about it. "Well, the navy obviously has its nuclear arsenal, but I'm not sure what that reporter meant. There's nothing like that in the Mobile Suit Troops arsenal that I know of."

He leaned forward. "Maybe some new weapon we haven't been told about. I bet Nichol would be the one to ask that about."

"Yeah, right." Flexing one muscular arm, Kanna checked her wristwatch. "Right now, I bet Mazuri's on that date with that bimbo he was so pleased with."

Walker chuckled quietly and looked back up at Kanna, whose eyes were now wide open and staring past him. He glanced over his shoulder to see Ogasawara Emi, wearing a black crop top, smiling back down at him, a thick manila folder in her right hand.

"Can I help you, Ogasawara?"

"Guess who's doing my performance review for my promotion to squadron commander?"

"Hey, congratulations ma'am!" Kanna chirped.

"Wait, why me?" Walker asked just as Emi shoved the folder into his chest.

"Good guess there, Walker. Orders from Colonel Armonia," she announced, her smile abruptly vanishing. "Let's get this over with."

"R-right," he sputtered, standing up and fixing the papers in the folder. "Again, though, why me?"

"Come on, Walker, you just ask me some stupid questions, sign a few forms, and then we're done. I'll treat you to a drink afterwards, would that make it better?" she asked impatiently.

Walker looked at her, than at Kanna, whose equally bewildered expression was replaced by a cocky grin and a thumbs-up. "Heehee!"

"Walker, are you coming or what?" Emi shouted back at him.

"Right away, yes!" he said, taking after her. Kanna was left by herself, on the couch, now resting her hands over her head.

"Dac, Ajay, you missed out," she said with a whistle. Behind her, a wall-mounted monitor set to an affiliate of the Muttahidah Satellite Channel. They were covering the ongoing Battle of Salt Lake City, while OZ brought a delayed hammer down on the remains of the Utahan Army.

The last days of the Continental War came down to street fighting between the Republican Guard and the 40th Canadian Victorian Cross Airborne Division. OZ-07AMS 'Aries' Troops showered Republican Guard tanks and armored cars with 90 mm APFSDS automatic fire, ripping them to shreds. The Guard responded with slow-firing 120 mm tungsten penetrators and 30 mm autocannon rounds, more of an annoyance to mobile suits. Except for the sporadic AMGM that managed to hit its mark, nothing even slowed the steamroll of OZ might.

3,218 meters underneath reclaimed land in the Great Salt Lake, First President Pratt sat in formal dining room, itself part of bunker complex fortified against nuclear-armed ground-penetrating missiles, trying to finish a plate of depressingly-named funeral potatoes. Every so often, the walls vibrated from OZ artillery pounding the streets above him.

"Thanks, Grumman," he muttered. The name of the Defense Minister of Utah adorned its share of back-alley walls, usually following an unsavory expletive, ever since news had broken out about his apparent treason. Now Pratt and everyone else walked around with a gas mask handy, even if the likelihood of a repeat of the incident was low.

"_Mr. President, sir, your wife just called,_" a voice came over the intercom.

"Good grief," he stood up. "Is she still on the line?"

"_No sir, she wanted to leave a message apparently._"

Pratt sighed. "Must be running late for another show in Zurich. Thank you, Dave."

"_Yes sir._"

He missed his wife. He missed his children and his newborn grandchild. Sitting in the center of a collapsing state, there was a lot to miss. But he came from both enormous wealth and an old family: the Romefeller Foundation valued both.

He resumed slow, deliberate chewing until he was interrupted again by a siren going off. Though he reached for his gas mask, he realized it wasn't warranted when the Secret Service rushed into the room and immediately surrounded him.

"What is it?"

"Multiple OZ helicopters, sir. There are troops repelling down into the Presidential Palace Courtyard."

He sighed in relief. "Finally, it's over."

**VI**

The entire Mobile Suit Troop's First Recon Battalion was kept in the Landmark, a massive and extremely high-class hotel built in the 20th Century Revival-style located. It faced the plaza of the same name in C-102's historic Old Town district. It was a stunning contrast to the nice, clean apartment-style barracks in the Military Quarter where pilots from the 7th Strategic Division like Walker were posted.

"This is a little intimidating," Walker told Emi as they crossed through the lobby.

"Don't be. We're only here because we're not on the first-response dock like you guys are," Emi assured him.

"I see."

An express lift took them up to the high-level suite Emi apparently shared with the others in her flight, where they found Tsujimoto lounging on a couch, out of uniform, her eyes planted a large wall monitor. She wore a bizarre-looking black leotard under a very loosely-fit orange shirt that hung on her arms.

"Nabikichan," Emi sang immediately after she entered, her voice strained. "Would you mind helping Walker with his review for my promotion?"

Nabiki looked at them over the edge of the couch, munching away on a snack. "Why, don't you trust him?"

_How does she stay so fit? Every time I've seen her, she's been eating something or another_, Walker thought.

"That's not the point, Nabiki," Emi said, sounding strained. "It would speed up the process, so we can get to the actual interview."

"_I _trust the flight lieutenant not to make any mistakes, Emichan."

"NABIKI!" she barked.

She stood up and gave a sigh before disappearing from the room. "_Hai, hai, hai._"

Emi gave Nabiki a twisted smile, before turning to Walker, her expression abruptly distanced and calmed. "Help yourself to something if you're thirsty," she said, gesturing at the marble-countered bar. "Carlos…Flight Officer Motta makes a fantastic caiprivodka, but I don't know where he is."

"I probably shouldn't be drinking in the middle of this," he said as Nabiki returned to the room, half-way-dressed in uniform, and plopped down at the sitting table next to him, shaking the whole table. Looking particularly annoyed, she looked up at Emi.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Aren't you leaving, _ma'am_?"

Emi blinked. "I thought I would…I mean…"

"Flight Lieutenant Walker has been _kind enough _to help with this paperwork," Nabiki said, practically shouting in the other direction.

Nabiki gave her commanding officer a rather patronizing look before turning away again. "Don't you _trust_ him?"

"…Of course I do," Emi sputtered out. Walker sat there, a stack of papers neatly under his hands, glancing back and forth between the two. "I'll…leave you two to it then," she said finally, marching swiftly out the same door they'd entered through.

Nabiki leered at her as she left, leaning back in her chair. Walker kept staring at her as she played around with her unbuttoned collar before leaving it as it was.

"What?"

"How do you know Flight Lieutenant Ogasawara again?" he asked again suspiciously.

"That's a longer story than you can afford, sir," she told him quickly.

The two remained at the sitting table for more than an hour, exchanging papers back and forth between them. In the lobby below them, Flight Lieutenant Chernenko shook hands with another uniformed F/L, that one from First Recon. The two took a seat in the lobby.

"They're keeping you up very nicely here."

"Better than they have to, but I won't complain," the other responded, removing his cap. "Thank you for coming, Dmitry."

"It's quite all right."

The other officer reached into the breast of his coat and took out a letter. "Can you give this to her?"

"I'll see Winthrop…I mean, Sibyl, at some point before deployment for the offensive. Though I don't know why you don't just send it over the wire."

"Network mail's too impersonal. Call me old fashion."

"Very old fashion." Chernenko glanced around at the crystal chandeliers hanging over them. "You seem down."

"I was talking to the medics."

"Well, there's your first mistake," Chernenko shook his head repeatedly. "The last people you should chew the fat with are college students and two-yearers," he told him, referring to those who enlisted for tuition money and other benefits, usually for a period of two years. Unlike the pilots in the Mobile Suit Troops, they would only spend a few years in the military, overwhelmingly in support roles, military police or as reserve infantry. "They don't have the same outlook on life."

"That doesn't mean it's wrong. The world doesn't begin and end at your avionics."

"My world does," Chernenko countered. "As does yours."

The other officer smiled. "There's more to this world than war. They remember to think about what they'll do with the rest of their lives. Dealing with life and death, I suppose they have to."

While the two reminisced, in the Military Quarter, the Mobile Suit Troops Medical Service ran drills for battlefield triage. A Taurus mobile suit was brought in on cranes, clouds of coolant swirling around and sirens blaring.

Dr. Arai, in her uniform and white coat, shouted over the chaos. "Cut the chatter! Wounded pilot coming in, medics deploy!"

A squad of newly-trained medics, both Terrestrial and Colonial, sprinted across the wide gantry to the cockpit of the mobile suit, dragging their triage equipment with them under their arms.

"Pilot is unresponsive!"

"Using the manual release!" another medic shouted as he climbed alongside the cockpit hatch and pulled open a compartment. Crying in pain, he pulled his gloved hand back briefly before pulling the lever release. The cockpit hatch popped open with a burst of propellant, revealing its pilot in a sky blue normal suit hanging limp from his seat. A sticky film of blood-red fluid had collected long his shoulders and underneath his helmet, occasionally floating away in the microgravity in spherical droplets.

"Looks like severe contusions and lacerations on the upper chest!" one medic diagnosed.

"Pilot is still breathing!" another medic shouted.

"And…? Dr. Arai shouted back at them.

"F-Free him from his restraints!"

"Get the stretcher first!" another medic shouted, while another one reached towards the seat restraints. He pressed on the release switch, only to spray of fluid over their faces, spurting from an unseen tear.

"Gah!"

The pilot whispered something, barely audible through his helmet.

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Use the emergency release," he whispered more loudly.

"Medics, time is a factor!" Dr. Arai yelled.

"Where is it?" a medic asked.

"It's under my right arm," the patient muttered.

"Look under his right arm!" someone shouted.

"I can't see it through the gas!"

A different alarm sounded and the lights stopped flashing. Behind them, Dr. Arai felt her headset. "Medical team, Pilot Officer Levinsky is dead." She paused for a moment before adding sarcastically, "Good work."

Levinsky's body tensed up and he began undoing the seals for his helmet before pulling it off. His neck and part of his face were now stained deep red with simulated blood, some of it in his blond hair.

"Oh, man!" one of the medics whined. Another one hit his head against his triage kit.

"So am I free to go, ma'am?" Levinsky asked.

"Go get cleaned up, Mr. Levinsky," Arai replied, shaking her head. "I think that's quite enough for today, let's clean out that cockpit."

While Levinsky undid his restraints, Arai shook her head and floated over to another staff officer.

"Is that it for today, ma'am?"

"Like hell it is," she whispered. "Go get Cadet Thompson, the one with the scars. We're trying this again with a Leo."

"You think it'll be different, ma'am?"

"No, but if I'm forced to choose who I'll inflict these rookie medics on, I'm afraid the Leo Troops will have to bite the bullet."

**VII**

Walker and Nabiki were still working at their sitting table by the evening, but had nearly finished with Emi returned to the suite in civilian dress.

"Hello again!" Walker said, a little too loud, rising from his seat politely. Nabiki rolled her eyes.

Emi turned to him and glanced at herself in the mirror, wearing a sleeveless white mini-dress and matching heels and clenched her jaw. "I thought I'd enjoy the one last walk before everything went to hell."

"Nothing wrong with that," Nabiki said with a snicker as Walker sat back down.

"We're nearly done here," Walker said anxiously. "Just some general background left, names, dates, and your signature and seal a few dozen times and we'll be finished."

"Again, Walker, thank you for your patience here."

"Oh, I'm quite…"

"Nabiki, say thank you to Flight Lieutenant Walker."

"Thank you, Flight Lieutenant Walker," Nabiki chirped obediently, flipping the sheet in her hands over and returning it to the stack.

"You're…welcome." Emi just shook her head.

"Since you brought it up, I think I'll take in some of the nightlife. The flight lieutenant won't mind…?"

"Again, I'm almost done here," Walker repeated more insistently as Nabiki left the table. Emi just shook her head as her subordinate undid her tunic in the adjacent room.

Walker gave her a sympathetic shrug when his mobile, sitting by the edge of the table, vibrate noisily. She watched him clench his jaw but refrained from picking it up, letting his hands sit together.

"Problem?"

"No, not at all."

Nabiki returned, in the same loose-fitting orange shirt and formfitting black outfit. She gave a celebratory twirl in front of the door, then looked over her shoulder and gave the two of them one of her wide smiles. "Oh, and congratulations on your promotion, _Junsan_."

Emi gave a short, nervous laugh as she closed the door, while Walker looked at her. "Why did she call you 'Jun'?"

She put a hand against her head. "There's no harm in you knowing. When I first applied to the Alliance Officers Program in Japan, I didn't use my actual name."

Walker frowned and immediately flipped through the papers. "Hono Jun." He looked up, confused. "Hono Jun?"

Emi gave him an apologetic smile and sat down at the table.

"This is a long story, isn't it." He ran a hand through his hair. "Is that drink still available, Emi?"

Walker reorganized the materials arrayed out before him while Emi poured the ingredients for a cocktail out into a fragile-looking Collins glass.

"It's…the name of a _manga _character from my childhood. She looked a little like me by the time I finished secondary when I was sixteen." Emi smiled at him while opening the icebox. "There's a photo of me at the time, over there."

When she looked up, Walker was already at the other end of the room, in front of a neatly-organized shelf on the wall. He found a half-dozen glass-framed photographs laid out in the illumination. The first was, almost surprisingly, was of the ranking officer in a revealing white bikini with black laces, and two other women on the right. They were standing on a beach in Okinawa, he reckoned. On the other end, in a less revealing bikini, was Tsujimoto Nabiki, looking smug as usual. He didn't recognize the woman standing between them, with long dark blond hair and disarming smile, about half-way between them in height.

"It's behind that one, Walker," Emi said, mixing a second drink.

"Right, I…here it is," he said quickly. To his surprise, the same three women stood in school uniforms, Nabiki and Emi wearing matching blue-collared public school uniforms with red handkerchiefs while the third woman wore a different, more ostentatious one. Ogasawara Emi looked almost just as she did in the other photograph, towering over the other two.

"That's Henriette Kisaragi. We called her 'Honey', though." Emi handed him a glass, which he took after setting down the photograph. She was distantly related to the Catalonias."

Walker shifted the glass in his hand. "And your pseudonym?"

"Before I attended Lake Victoria, while I was in secondary school, I had a sordid past," she admitted quietly. "I was anxious to rid myself of it. At least for a while."

Walker nodded somberly. "I won't claim that I can relate, I really can't."

She held the drink in his direction, and he walked over and took it. "I'll drink to that."

Walker raised an eyebrow. "Having an unremarkable adolescence?"

"Character-building years," she offered. "Cheers."

"_Kampai_," he replied as their glasses clinked. Emi finished while he was still halfway.

"I needed that."

Walker just nodded while he drank, finally finishing. "Right, well, we should finish up here."

Nodding dutifully, Emi sat down and took a pen while Walker shuffled the stack in front of him. The streetlights came on across the colony, lighting up both Old and New Town, along with the Diplomatic Quarter that housed the OZ Legation and the Military Quarter, where it illuminated ground crews moving equipment and preparing for a full resumption of war.

Within view of L1-C-102, Lady Soris Armonia waited aboard the OZSS _Over the Rainbow_. The massive and ancient EBC-31 exploration cruiser had finished its full rearmament and engine refit, and was prepared to join the rest of the Space Forces in the Noventa Strategic Offensive Operation.

The outdated carrier wasn't on the mind of the Baroness of Oviedo, who was completely focused with the two mobile suits delivered to the carrier: OZ-13SMS1 and OZ-13SMS2, the first pair of production model Vayeate and Mercurius Gundam-like mobile suits. Unlike the blue and red prototypes, they were painted in traditional OZ colors: graphite black and gleaming white.

Her younger sister floated down to her from the ceiling, holding a clipboard with a paper showing the designation change from OZ-13MSX1 and OZ-13MSX2, as authorized by Treize Khushrenada himself. The lieutenant colonel nodded her head in anticipation as the two mobile suits, affixed to their rapid deployment sled, were given a final look-over by the diligent ground crew.

At the same time, in the Landmark Hotel, Walker and Emi were already very sloshed. The two had emptied a bottle of dry gin and the other bottles and cans of cocktail ingredients from the minibar. Walker sat at the sitting table, protectively lying atop the paperwork, his face planted down. Emi leaned back in her chair, using one muscular leg hooked on the table to keep from toppling backwards.

Sitting up slowly, Walker almost spilled his glass with his elbow. Taking it, he lifted it at Emi and smiled drunkinly. "So…Hono Jun?"

"She looked like me, and she kicked ass in a giant robot. That's pretty close!" Emi said before emptying her glass and letting the ice spill out on the floor.

"I'll take your word for it."

"You should!"

Walker nodded before falling back onto the table. "Hono Jun. Well, it's not a bad name. Mine on the other hand," he said before snickering. "Oswald Walker. _Oswald _Walker. _Sir _Oswald Walker. Sounds like a Scottish Peerage. _Sir Oswald Walker: _the upstart son of the lord who you rent your tenant farm from."

"Totally unsuited for you," Emi said in agreement. "Where are you from, anyway?"

"Windsor in North America. Lived there through the first year of secondary. Then OZ got me."

Emi gave a hearty laugh. "I must have had…a dozen different part-time jobs in secondary school. Traffic director, pizza delivery…hell, I was a waitress once." She arched her head back. "They had me…had me, and all the other waitresses with these low-cut bodices over our blouses…"

In mid-swallow, Walker blew out some of his cocktail before immediately apologizing. "I'm sorry, that wasn't you, I just needed to sneeze."

Emi apparently thought this was hilarious and laughed uncontrollably.

"So, _Hono Jun_," he repeated, his head bobbing back and forth slightly. "What took you from waitressing and pizza delivery and traffic direction to flying mobile suits for the Alliance?" he asked, cocking his head.

"_That's _a long story," she said, pointing while holding the empty gin bottle. "We are going to need more if we're going to go over that."

Walker shook his head very strenuously. "In that case, I take it back. I've really had too much."

"Oh, come on, _bouya_!" she said, still snickering at him. "Can't handle it?"

"I barely handled my own head just a moment ago," he pointed out, standing upright carefully. He walked in the direction of the couch, step by step, before propping himself up against it. He bobbed a little more before falling back into it, trying to keep his head upright.

Emi gave him a sad smile. "You know, I didn't expect to see this side of you."

"Is that so?" he asked, his head turned away and pressed against the mattress.

She finished the glass in her other hand. "You…have a reputation as kind of a stiff, Walker."

"I do, do I?"

"Well, you're not alone. I don't have many friends outside First Recon."

"Really? I thought you were quite popular," he said from the couch.

She shook her head again before leaving the table for the adjacent bedroom. "Not the same thing, Walker."

"Really?"

Emi paused, pulled her sleeveless dress over her head and tossed it onto her bed, and glanced at Walker's legs sticking out of the couch. "The female experience really is foreign to you, isn't it?"

"Completely foreign, _mademoiselle_," Walker assured her, his voice becoming more slurred.

_Probably the human experience as well, _Emi thought, her eyes rolling. She pulled on a dark-colored undershirt and leaned her head over again, looking at him through the doorway.

"Walker, are you still awake?"

His response was delayed. "Could you call me a taxi, please?" he asked slowly.

"Already on it."

Walker rolled off the couch, bouncing onto the floor in a pile and slowly standing up. "With that in mind, I'll take my leave. Thank you for the evening hospitality and the cocktail or six."

Promptly, he wandered in a deviating path to the door, bumping into the occasional chair and almost slipping on the ice she'd spilled earlier, before walking straight into the door. He bounced off again, opened it carefully then stumbled through. Emi stepped into the doorway in her underwear, looked at the trail he'd left and then at the stack of papers left on the sitting room table, before stepping back into her room. A second later, there was a polite knock.

"It's open, Walker."

Looking substantially more sober, Walker opened the door, stuck his head in, and made a straight line for the sitting table. "I left my paperwork, excuse me. Good night, Emi." Without another word, he left the room.

Standing in the dark, Emi stared at the door and shook her head, holding back a laugh. More than ever, she could see clearly the handiwork of the powers that loomed above them—the military machine that recruited a boy, trained him, and then paid him handsomely to fight in wars in distant places he'd never visit otherwise, to be a man he'd never have been otherwise.

**VIII**

Bright and early next morning, the hangar floor chiefs were barking from atop the cargo crates they stood on, each holding a clipboard.

"Winthrop Flight! OZSS _Calypso_! Chernenko Flight! OZSS _Europa_! Cage Flight! OZSS _Asiana_!Donovan Flight! OZSS _Sarajevo_!" one shouted.

Across a stream of OZ officers pushing their way in every direction, another one looked down at her clipboard and shouted similarly. "Clarkson Flight! OZSS _Callisto_! Kim Flight! OZSS _Europa_! Walker Flight! OZSS _Callisto_! Squadron Command Sun, you're on OZSS _Over the Rainbow_!" She lowered her clipboard. "Godspeed and good luck, Mobile Suit Troops!"

Able to see over the crowd, Kanna scanned the hangar floor and pointed with one arm. "He's over there!"

"_Attention all CAST Insertion Teams, assemble in Hangar 3B. Repeat, all CAST Insertion Teams…_" the speakers blared overhead, as she, Dac, and Mazuri shoved their way over to a very tired looking Walker.

"Jesus, sir, you look horrible."

Walker stopped rubbing his face. "Thank you for that astute observation, Mr. Bishop."

"What happened?" Kanna asked.

"You look like you went eight rounds with someone and lost," Mazuri offered.

"A gentleman by the name of Tom Collins," Walker muttered, handing Kanna his bag before holding his sides. He seemed to lurch for a few seconds, turning a little green, and then stood up straight.

"Awe, that's cute. When a girl does it, it's 'Hey, she must be fun! She's a party girl!'. When a guy does it, it's 'Wow, how sad is this guy'?" Dac explained with a smile, before Kanna offloaded both her and Walker's luggage into his hands, causing him to buckle.

"I'll be fine, I just didn't have time for a saline drip," Walker said, rubbing his face again. His hawk-like features had lost a lot of their sharpness. "How are you?" he asked finally.

"Could be worse."

"I said goodbye to a beautiful woman who _wasn't _in uniform, so I'm all set," Mazuri said.

"Being crushed to death," Dac grunted.

"_This is the final notice to CAST Insertion Teams, report to…_" the speakers repeated. In the hallway to an adjacent hangar, a sea of sky blue and violet normal suits huddled around an island of hunter green-colored armored troops brandishing assault carbines.

"Are you ready for this?" Lieutenant Parsons asked Major Cebotari, forcing himself to gloat. The senior Military Commissariat officer stood next to him, her violet normal suit opened behind her revealing long black hair and the contours of her bare backside. He waited for a response, but instead she just adjusted her hair while another woman with a straight, bob haircut did the back clasps of her suit.

"Thank you."

The other woman just nodded. Ahead of them, in the middle of the crowd, Warrant Officer Cameron stood next to First Lieutenant Ellis, an equally large, imposing man with a shaved head. "All right, all of you have memorized your insertion points. If you have to deviate from your planned vectors, don't panic: the point is not to be seen. That's why you're wearing military normal suits, in the end of the day, if the Noventans see anyone outside that colony who shouldn't be there, they'll shoot first and ask questions later. And make sure to use your destruction kits to cover your tracks once you've shed them."

Cameron holstered a large-caliber handgun. "The Mobile Suit Troops will provide the distraction, and we shouldn't be noticed. They will do their job, and we will do ours."

"If you are compromised—look at the box on your chest. It's something we've adopted from the Colony Liberation Organization: a personal self-destruct device. It will kill you, and in conjunction with your destruction kits, destroy any evidence alongside the people who discovered you."

Parsons glanced down at the small rectangular compartment over his right breast, then flipped the cover open to reveal a single red switch surrounded by caution markings. Around his left wrist there was another added compartment with a separate switch. "Well, this certainly inspires confidence."

Ellis put his hands on his hips. "You've all be briefed. I'm not the kind to give inspiring speeches, but I do want to leave you with something: chapter one, of _The Art of War_. All warfare is based on deception. When able to attack, appear unable. When on the march, appear inactive. When near, appear far." He took his helmet, marked with the distinctive CAST unit insignia on the side, and held it under his arm. "And when you're far away, make them think we're near."

Departing from L1-C-102, the _Over the Rainbow _brought its new drive systems to full power and began making its course corrections. Lady Soris waited in the same converted dining room that Treize Khushrenada had taken the surrender of Admiral Kuznetsov weeks earlier, watching the starfield shift.

"Lady Soris, incoming call from First Recon Battalion Headquarters."

"Send it through."

The long table behind her was bare except for a digital notebook, whose screen lit up.

"I got your paperwork. Congratulations, Squadron Commander Ogasawara."

"_Thank you, ma'am._" At the other end, Emi sat at a similar table in her hunter greens.

"How was your 'date' with the flight lieutenant?" Lady Soris teased.

"_Pretty useful, actually_." Emi shifted and crossed her legs under the table. "_From what I could tell, his work hasn't suffered particularly, and it doesn't seem like his mental state has either_."

"What do you mean by 'particularly'?"

"_You should have sent a professional psychoanalyst._"

"We tried that. But North doesn't care about the damage, only how to minimize the effects."

"_I don't think there's any particular damage…_"

"But?" Soris asked, turning, a hand on her chin.

"_But I feel sorry for him._"

"That's very forthcoming of you."

"_I can be forthcoming if asked_," Emi snapped back warningly.

"I know, I know," she said, shaking her head. "I'm sorry. Thank you for your help."

The transmission cut and Soris turned to her sister, standing rigidly at the corner.

"No word from Ambassador Une, then?"

"No ma'am."

"If you want something done properly, do it yourself," she chuckled with a roll of her eyes. The _Over the Rainbow _had stopped its slow turn, and arrayed before her were a dozen smaller warships. Roughly ahead of them, adjacent in her view to Luna, was the First Langrage Point's Area D colony cluster.

"This is the command ship _Over the Rainbow _to all task force vessels: commence with the Noventa Strategic Offensive Operation!"

At her command, hundreds of mobile suits, dozens of warships and fighters, and almost a hundred thousand troops moved forward as one, with the shared destination of Midway.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author's Notes:<em>**

_Another chapter fallen prey to having too much to say and too much stuff to happen. Except the next chapter to be battle heavy, but still far removed from the original Operation 'Meteor' plotline. Additionally, our dear Emi is apparently a big fan of 'Uncle Go' Nagai, the famed manga artist most famous for his _Mazinger _and _Cutey Honey _series and their associated spin-offs, which is not something I think clashes too much with her established personality so far. _


	39. Midway

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 39 – Midway**

After so many delays, it came: H-Hour, the commencing of the Noventa Strategic Offensive Operation. Barely H-2—two hours before H-Hour—every pilot in the Space Mobile Suit Troops 7th Division was ordered into their machine and placed on final alert. On the _Callisto_ (BC-120) Flight Lieutenant Walker finally climbed aboard his mobile suit and waited to be launched, alongside several other pilots. The calm before the storm set in: all hands were dead silent, all orders had already been handed out and memorized. The only voices to be heard were whispers among the hangar crew, reverently observing the silence.

Then the command came: all hands to battle stations, all mobile suits prepare to launch.

Walker had one last opportunity: he opened the channel to do a one-way videochat with Flight Officers Kaneshiro and Mazuri. He had a short speech prepared, something he'd turned over in his head since he'd left MO-V. He opened his mouth to begin, then stared at the other two pilots, their faces largely hidden by helmets. The armored hangar shutter was already being raised.

Raising a thumb, he gave an exaggerated nod. "Don't get killed."

"_Yes sir!_"

"_Hai,_ Taichō_!_"

He switched channels and squeezed both flight sticks as he took his place on the catapult. "Arrow Leader, launching!"

Walker was flung forward as his own vernier boosters went to full thrust. In front of him, the twinkling line of rocks and space debris that made up the Midway defensive line. Following him were eleven other mobile suits carried by the battlecruiser, all OZ-12SMS 'Taurus'. Instead of their small rapid-deployment carriers, they deployed directly from the warship in mobile suit mode, for one reason: to enter combat as immediately as possible.

"_All call signs, altitude and weapons restrictions lifted! Move to engage!_" a voice commanded, just a few seconds after the _Callisto _opened fire with its four primary turrets.

"_Oh God, here they come!_" someone shouted.

On the other side of Midway, in tight formation, were four destroyers and three cruisers. Behind them, surrounded by a cloud of small ships and fighters, was a single massive carrier, the Alliance command ship. From their perspective, the _Callisto _and _Europa _were coming into firing range, their beam cannons flashing, followed by the _Over the Rainbow_. Twenty million tonnes of spaceship stared at each other across a sparse-looking field of debris, mines, and defensive turrets.

There was at least the appearance of calm and organization on the bridge of the _Europa _(BC-80), whose captain stood up in the utility-grade normal suit he wore over his uniform.

"Sir! The _Over the Rainbow _has reported they detect no ECM jamming from the direction of the enemy force!"

"To the _Over the Rainbow_: are you certain of that? Respond," the captain said.

There was a pause. "Response: we have detected some interference along the far edges of Midway, heading two-nine-zero, but we see no defensive troops there. Will continue to monitor. You are ordered to begin the operation!"

Exchanging glances with his XO, the captain nodded. "Very well. Begin clearing the minefield in sectors three, four and five!"

"Torpedoes standing by in tubes one through six, sir!"

"Fire all tubes!"

The _Callisto, _the _Europa _and their escorting of destroyers let lose a barrage of nuclear-tipped torpedoes. They dove straight into Midway, exploding in more than a dozen miniature sons and vaporizing huge portions of the field. The remaining automated guns rained beam fire back down at the advancing cruisers.

The _Europa_'s captain glanced at a nearby data screen. "That's quite enough, save our torpedoes. Recommend a tight formation around and ahead of the _Over the Rainbow. _Sensors, any ECM or interference?"

"No sign of ECM ships, sir. However, I am getting some interference on the battlefield edge."

"Confirm with the rest of the force. Could it be EMP from all those nuclear torpedoes."

"Very possible, sir. Sharing data across he fleet."

"_There goes most of the minefield!_" Kanna called out from Arrow 1-2.

"_Stay focused! They've just blown a field out for their ships too!_" Pilot Officer Bishop yelled from Arrow Flight's R.D. carrier.

"_He's right! Maintain speed and formation! We're going in!_"

Still in mobile suit mode, a delta formation of three Taurii raced into the gaps in the Midway defensive line, the actual enemy warships abruptly coming into view.

It all happened so fast, Walker seriously suspected that Space Forces General Staff was barely more aware of the situation than he was. _The General Staff is probably still wondering if this is actually happening. And forget D-120, __Septim__ might not even be out of bed yet. What's the local time for L1 right now?_

And then they were in clear view. Ahead of them was the Arroway Fleet, more accurately a taskforce was a large task force. In the center, clearly visible for the first time, was the Alliance's last remaining unarmed super-carrier, EASFS _Admiral __Asakai_, hull designation CV-61. Walker suspected that the huge, cavernous hangars of the rectangular carrier were packed with violet mobile suits, Alliance pilots scrambling into their tan space suits and preparing to launch as quickly as possible, despite being escorted by the rest of the group.

"_That thing is massive_!" Kanna said with a whistle.

"_And unlike the _Rainbow, _it looks like it can actually move!_"

"_Arrow Carrier, are you there_?" Walker asked.

"_Yes sir, standing by!_" Dac responded eagerly.

"_My signal reception is weak over here, can you boost me on the primary ship frequency on your end until I fix it?_"

"_Will do, sir. Patching you through!_"

Walker stopped pressing keys next to his port MFD and leaned back. _North said watch for Arroway's tricks. So that's what I'll do. _

There was a loud buzzing and suddenly, all three pilots could hear the chatter from the numerous ships of the taskforce, now abandoning their tight formation.

"_Entering engagement zone, repeat, entering engagement zone!_"

"_Affirmative, all ships, use the _Asakai _as your approach vector, repeat, use the _Asakai _as your approach vector_," a clear voice with a Eurasian accent announced from the _Callisto_, now being joined by the faster OZSS _Mimas_.

"Mimas_, bombard the _Asakai_'s__ escort squadron on my mark_…" the OZSS _Europa _ordered, the transmission sound more distorted to him.

"_Firing all guns along vector 3-3-1_."

"_F-880, mark the _Bremen, _the _Poznan _and the _Bialystok_ for the rest of taskforce,_" the _Callisto _ordered.

"_Affirmative, making our run._" Behind Walker, a small frigate broke off from the group, its engines at full power.

"…Asakai_ at twelve-nine-eighteen and twelve-six-seventeen…_" the _Minmas_announced, still sounding garbled and distorted.

"Phobos_, primary is _Dione. Tethys_, primary is _Omaha."

"Phobos _acknowledges._" OZSS _Phobos_, a destroyer with almost solid-charcoal colored armor, also began its attack run. Parallel to it, the larger _Titan-_class cruiser accelerated more sluggishly, its two long-range turrets coming to bear.

"Tethys _acknowledges. Moving to intercept_ at eleven-six…" OZSS _Tethys _let fire with both turrets.

"_This is F-653, now under fire, need assistance. Repeat, F-653 is moving to withdraw._"

"_This is _Tethys_, coming to aid F-653. Move directly with the _Hanoi."

Not far behind the mobile suits, and already well through the Midway gap, the ships F-653 and the _Hanoi_, an anti-mobile suit destroyer, began to break off from the barrage of light beam fire. The small frigate was almost halfway between Walker's flight and the _Admiral Asakai _when its forward hull exploded, followed by the entire ship being consumed in a fireball.

Someone was shouting even before he processed what had happened. "_F-653 just exploded! Was that a nuclear torpedo?_"

"Negative, negative!" Walker shouted, pressing forward against his restraints. "Mobile suits! Repeat, Leo troops deployed from the _Asakai_! Arrow Flight, Eagle Flight, form up on me!"

"_Affirmative!_"

Screaming through the fiery wreckage of F-653, Walker counted eight violet OZ-06SMS made a direct line for them, with more joining them at the rear. The Pioneer Leos began firing their beam cannons directly at their position, from beyond the expected range.

"Break formation! Eagle 2-2 and Eagle 2-3, cover the _Hanoi _while it repositions! Everyone else, launch the counterattack!" Walker shouted into his helmet.

**II**

"…Even now, our valiant soldiers have moved to cross Midway and enter the so-called Republic of Noventa! After twenty years, the last hours of Alliance tyranny in Outer Space are upon us!"

Dermail Catalonia stood in front of a full session of the World Assembly of the United Nations Organization. The Duke of Liechtenstein took a moment to enjoy the applause, particularly that from his colleagues on the board of the Romefeller Foundation. The whole war had divided the board, particularly the matter of Outer Space. The anti-Colonials had settled alongside Weyridge's pacifists on their opposition to a more aggressive posture in Outer Space. The former was adamantly opposed to arming the colonies under any circumstances and the later balked at any fighting that didn't keep the Alliance from shooting at them personally.

He wasn't sure which ones he found more foolish, as their shifted uncomfortably in their seats in the Assembly. Their awkward silence in the face of overwhelming approval from Catalonia's supporters and the non-Romefeller attendees, many of whom had been demanding this offensive for weeks now.

Down from the speaker's podium, Duke Dermail shook hands with the Secretary-General of the U.N.O., a vocal known pro-war and pro-Colonial, and her guest in a junior officer's uniform who was either the her nephew of son. Lord Dermail didn't remember which, so instead just gave him a supportive pat on the epaulet through his red dress cape. Rubbing shoulders like this, it was part of any political life, and it was a part Dermail didn't dislike.

A familiar face came next. Perry was another high-ranking U.N.O. official and board member, one whose position was frequently unclear and deliberately vague. He wasn't really trusted by Weyridge, so Lord Dermail put on a friendly face.

"You looked like you were enjoying yourself up there!"

"Was it that apparent?" he responded with a chuckle.

"On the other hand, I've heard that granddaughter of yours has been chomping on the bit to get up there and join them."

Dermail nodded. An irritatingly accurate description of Dorothy Catalonia, but he kept a smile. "Making her my guest for the Assembly was the only thing I could do to keep her from leaving on her own."

"I'm lucky my own is too young."

"Give it a few years," Dermail good-naturedly warned.

"Actually, I'm more surprised about your nephew, the commander-in-chief, frankly. I would have sworn he'd be up there."

"Treize has his hands full, though I'll admit it surprises me too. He has his best woman, Une, as commander up in space, but I never thought he'd let this pass him by. Seems he's preoccupied enough here on Earth."

"Well, with Utah having folded, I don't expect that'll last. Haiti's become a time-consuming slog, as has Afghanistan. So I've been told."

"Well, we may have found a solution to that," he promised Perry, guiding him down to the aisle. "But I don't mind admitting, I can hardly tell what Treize is thinking half the time." _Too much like his mother, I'd wager. _

**III**

Most of the Space Forces had pushed more than twenty kilometers into the Midway defensive line, primarily through the gaps blown open with nuclear weapons. Ahead of them the _Admiral __Asakai _shook violently when one of its fusion reactors discharged. A few seconds later, a mobile weapon ordnance magazine exploded, splitting the keel.

Walker didn't see it: his Taurus was trading shots with a Space Leo on opposite sides of a destroyed freighter. He sent a blast right through the upper-starboard quarter of the torso, knocking off the attached arm.

"_Taichō, watch your eight!_"

Out of the corner of his left eye, Walker saw something flash on his display and spun his machine around. He immediately identified an enemy mobile suit with a dober gun—an uncommon weapon for this environment—which fired at him again, missing once more. Instantly, it was carved up by beam fire, turned from a violet mobile suit to multiple twisted burning chunks.

Walker barely had time to flee the explosions from the canon's shells striking the wreck behind him. _God, if that pilot was any good, I'd be dead right now! _"Sorry, thank you, Kanna! Arrow 1-2, Arrow 1-3, regroup at six-twenty-nineteen!"

"_Yes sir!_"

"_Acknowledged!_"

As the three regrouped, a line of Space Leos formed alongside an intact defensive gun, battered by fire from the OZSS _Over the Rainbow_. Its own captain, standing anxiously in the command center, turned to his executive officer.

"We've come separated! Order the _Callisto _to close on our flank!"

"Captain, the _Mimas _just lost its No. 3 turret and is requesting fire support!"

"They'll have to wait," he barked. "Change heading to one-eight-…"

"_We'll cover the _Mimas_, Captain. Set your heading for one-six-zero and prepare for a breakout_," a cool, commanding voice interrupted him.

The captain leaned towards his console. "Uh…yes, ma'am, Lady Soris. Change heading to one-six-zero!"

A formation of six Taurii descended upon an Alliance destroyed, raking it with beam fire and disabling almost all of its turrets. A Space Leo taking cover on the ship scored a hit on a passing Taurii with his beam rifle.

"_Damn it, I'm hit. Arrow 1-3, how's it look?_"

"_You're definitely trailing some fire there, sir._"

Walker went "Tsk!" at himself repeatedly, shaking his helmet, before pressing a key on his left-hand MFD. "This is Arrow 1-1, I'm hit and running rough. Can any nearby carriers respond?"

"_This is the _Mimas, _we read you Arrow Actual. Sending you a vector over __datalink__, set your heading two-nine-two. What's your damage?_"

Walker's Taurus fired its vernier rockets hard starboard and then went swiftly into fighter mode, the starfield shifting from its perspective. "_Got grazed by Leo fire. Light damage._"

The voice on the other end turned urgent. "_Arrow Leader, have your weapons been hit?_"

He sighed. "_No, my fusion reactor was hit. My power output has dropped. Sorry for the confusion._"

In under five minutes, he drifted into the open hangar at the end of the _Mimas__' _catapult, where a repair team was waiting in utility normal suits. Walker switched his machine back into mobile suit mode and set down in the middle, as mooring cables were hooked onto it. There was already a technician waiting when he powered down and opened his cockpit hatch.

"You're in luck, Flight Lieutenant, we have a spare reactor standing by."

"Careful with that convenience, Chief, I'll start to think you just want me off your ship," Walker joked back.

Walker pulled the mechanical releases usually out of reach in combat, with good reason, and the engineers began carefully removing the reactor housing, a dorsal hump between the two upturned wings.

"Careful with that beam cannon!" one engineer warned.

"Venting coolant in three...two..." another announced, before vanishing in a white cloud of rapidly vaporizing liquid helium, the power plant's primary cooling system, as it was vented free. His normal suit protected him from the coolant's effect.

Walker and another engineer removed the housing, exposing the Taurus' spine. In the middle, just behind the cockpit area, was one of OZ's most prevalent military products, the ultracompact fusion reactor. The small device was housed inside its own small cylindrical case about the width of an oil drum and a good deal shorter.

"Looks like the casing is split. You're lucky you got here before it shut down from overheat."

"The cryostat unit looks fine, it just looks like the vacuum chamber is compromised. Get the next tokamak in here!"

Walker looked over his shoulder and spotted another Taurus in the hangar, its cockpit open and its pilot being strapped to a floating stretcher. They were already trying to cut through the sleeve of her normal suit with a utility knife. _Better the machine than the pilot_, he thought.

"Let me give you a hand there," he announced nervously, launching himself out of his cockpit.

It took about four minutes for them to remove the damaged reactor, check the structural rings and supports for any physical abuse, then set in an identical new ultracompact reactor and connect the umbilical cable and other lines, the last step being the most time consuming. An excellent power plant quick-change, made easier with professionals in low gravity. Walker did what he could to help before throwing himself back into the cockpit.

"Everything looks good on our end," the Chief announced, watching as another engineer pumped the Taurus' coolant reservoir full of liquid helium.

Walker watched the small needle on one of the Taurus analog gauges rise, tapping it with his glove. "Tank's full, beginning start-up sequence."

"_Go ahead,_" a voice said in his helmet.

Flipping the bank of switches one by one, he went through the manual, rather than automatic, start-up procedure for the power plant, as was customary after a battlefield replacement. As his cockpit avionics came back to life, they indicated a steady rise in plasma temperature and the stability of the magnetic field.

"Reactor online," he announced, flipping the final switch, which was accompanied by a familiar metallic tone from behind him. "Everything looks green."

"_Clearing you for departure, Flight Lieutenant._"

"If I'm not killed, I'll be sure to praise the crew of the _Mimas_in my post-battle report."

"_Thank you sir. Opening hangar door. Clear for the catapult in four…three…shit, what's that?!_"

Just as Walker prepared to turn to exit the hangar, a blinding flash polarized his helmet. _That was a cruiser beam canon, but what's it firing here for? _Walker checked his vector and launched under his own power. "Close the door after me. Arrow Actual, launching!" he shouted before switching his channel.

"Arrow Actual to fleet, who the hell fired that shot? That almost hit the _Minmas_!"

"_That was me, actually_."

He recognized the voice immediately; it took another three seconds for him to put it together, which was just enough to for it to be revealed to him visually. A black mobile suit; not a Taurus, he soon recognized, a bit bulkier, carrying a massive beam cannon that was still glowing from the emitter. He'd seen the design, and didn't have look at his MFD for the details.

OZ-13SMS1, the production model Vayeate. He'd mistaken its massive weapon for a warship-class weapon, but its pilot was unmistakable.

His Taurus matched her mobile suit's velocity and trajectory. "_Lady Soris, I apologize, you orders_?"

"_Three o'clock low, Walker._"

His machine spun on its AMBAC motors just in time to see two Pioneer Leos line up their shots, only to have their beam waves disperse about twenty meters in front of him. Looking around, he saw a number of dark discs arrayed around both mobile suits. Immediately, Walker squeezed the trigger in his cockpit and rained beam fire back at them.

"_Don't get killed_," she ordered as another white mobile descended upon them, collecting up the defensor discs onto its back. Walker recognized it too, as he'd seen the design before: OZ-13SMS2, the production model Mercurius.

"_Shuivan 1 to Shuivan 2, tight formation, follow me. Arrow 1-1, you'll be spotting for us._"

"_Yes ma'am!_"

**IV**

General Grumman sat to the right of Admiral Arroway, as they enjoyed dinner in a stateroom aboard the _Africana_. Opposite her on the far wall, a tactical overlay was displayed on a large screen. Practically all of OZ's committed space had made it across the Ventei Line.

Grumman shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "This looks to be a complete breakthrough now."

"Very observant, General."

"And you intend to do something about it, don't you? That advance taskforce has been almost entirely wiped out."

She laughed. "You really need to learn not to sweat the small things, General Grumman. You'll never live through this war otherwise."

"I really don't think you should be treating this so lightly, ma'am," he began indignantly while turning red. "Though I understand my concerns may appear to be…ironic, in light of my recent…actions."

Arroway stared at him before laughing again, this time throwing her head back. "You're a riot, Grumman. Really you are."

While the general rubbed his forehead unhappily, Arroway turned to an officer standing behind her. "Report."

"Commander, our forces at the defensive line have been reduced to approximately forty-six percent."

"Fine then. Order a retreat and then begin the Midway Alternative Strategy."

The officer clicked the heels of his boots before departing and Grumman looked up. "I'm sorry, what? Midway Alternative Strategy?"

"Did I warn you, General, not to sweat the small things?" she repeated with a grin as she stood up. "Get Soletta on the line."

The officer was clearly hiding his excitement. "Yes ma'am!"

At Midway, the _Admiral Asakai _had begun spinning controllably along the length of its keel, turning about as another explosion blasted part of the superstructure out an expose the drive systems. Nonetheless, the massive carrier refused to split apart entirely, and Leo troops were beginning to use it as very effective cover.

"_All troops, do not advance past the _Asakai, _the _Omaha _and F-651 have those vectors completely ranged!_" a voice warned as the Pioneer Leos kept taking potshots at anyone who dared approach.

"_Goddammit, will someone fire a torpedo into that thing already!? Their Leos can't shoot all of them down!_"

"_What we need is something they can't shoot_."

Walker remained close to Shuivan 1, taking care not to fall out of the range of the five defensor units that shielded it.

"_What are you thinking, Walker_?" Colonel Armonia asked, her voice indicating she already half-knew.

Walker chased off an advancing violet Leo with a burst of three shots. "_You'll need to get within sixty kilometers, maybe less, but it should take only one shot at full power._"

In her cockpit, Luna Armonia cocked her head. "Are you sure or not, Lieutenant Walker?"

"I can't say for certain, because I don't have all the data," Walker responded quickly, punching the keys on his right-hand MFD. A schematic diagram of the _Admiral Taira_-class carriers was brought up, and what data could be made available to him over datalink. "If I have the data, I will be certain."

"Barge_ to Shuivan 1. Soris, have Winthrop Flight cover you on the approach_."

The black mobile abruptly decelerated before dragging is firing beam cannon over a cloud of Leo Troops, dispersing them. "_Negative, North. Their already stretched too thin, Luna will be enough._"

North audibly grunted over the channel. "_Very well, but I'm deploying our reserves from the combat engineers, and I won't have you arguing on that._"

"_Can we have the _Over the Rainbow _cover us? They can be in position in…_"

Soris shielded her eyes as enemy fire splashed against the electromagnetic shield ahead of her. "Negative, Walker. If they slipup, they won't be able to run." She dragged her targeting reticle over the distant _Admiral Asakai_. "And that's your sign, Walker. Pull off."

"_Shuivan 1, if I…_"

She grinned. "If you stay, you'll do what in that titanium shark of yours? Leave this to the Gundanium orcas. Now back off, Luna will cover you."

"_Acknowledged. Arrow Actual, pulling off._" Obediently, Walker waited for Shuivan 2 to disperse its defensors and charge right into the middle of a Space Leo squad, cutting one in half with its crash shield, a beam saber in a compact defensive circular shield. With quick bursts of thrust, the defensors formed a magnetic half-bubble around the Taurus as it sped away.

The _Over the Rainbow_, taking on damaged troops in its large hangars, monitored Shuivan 1 and 2 as they advanced on battlefield's other massive carrier.

"The Taurus troops aren't changing their formations," a radar operator announced.

"Damn those stubborn Armonia Sisters," the carrier's ship snapped from the back of the simplistic command center that characterized the _Peacemillion_-class. "Do we have any Leo squadrons standing by?"

"No ma'am, they're committed to covering the approach vectors for our main hangar."

"This should be over by now. What are they holding out for, why are they bothering to throw their lives away like this?" she asked, grinding her teeth and leaning over the nearby console.

"They must believe in the cause," her executive officer announced from nearby.

"What was that?" she asked, turning her head sharply.

"Captain! Multiple bogeys, approaching from heading zero-seven-five!" a radar operator shouted as the commander's head whipped back.

"What? How were we flanked?"

"There must have been ECM on the battlefield periphery," her XO replied, running to a nearby communications station. "All ships, this is the _Over the Rainbow_, we've got counting…thirteen hostiles on approach on our extreme flank. _Hanoi_, please respond!"

Outside and a hundred kilometers behind the _Over the Rainbow_, more than a dozen violet Space Leos mounting beam rifles, cannons, missile launchers and dober guns flew free from the ruins of Midway. At the front of the pack, the leader bore the squadron insignia belonging to the Noventan Republican Guard. Behind it, another pair of mobile suits dragged a captured Taurus beam cannon with them.

"_Even with the ECM, how did they hide this long? Those atomics should have fried their electronics at least!_"

They made a straight line for the carrier's long bank of engines, while black Taurii and cobalt blue Leos moved to intercept. The leader decelerated, leveled its 360 mm long-barreled gun, and fired a single shot, turning a blue Leo into two separate parts. Slowed from the weapon's recoil, it ejected the glowing red shell casing behind it. The pair following it took careful aim and fired directly at the engine bank.

A wave a charged particles rushed forward and cut deep through the sleek white paneling just above the starboard engine nozzles. Captain Soletta leaned forward against her restraints, grinning from ear to hear. "Good shot! All call signs, execute the maneuverer, just as planned!"

The carrier's command staff was in a panic. "The defensive fire's not working! _Hanoi_, where are you?"

"We're too spread out! They're coming right for us!"

"Damn it, engines ahead flank! Whatever else they have hidden out there, we're not staying to find out!"

Even as the carrier accelerated, almost all of the Leo troops were able to make contact on their first pass, taking positions along the smoldering gaps in the white paneling. Squadron Command Sun, in the middle of his own Taurus flight, was the first to spot them.

"This is Sun! I've made direct visual contact with the Leo squadron, counting eight troops! They've just taken positions over the damaged section!" He rocked backwards against his seat. "Can't get a clear shot at them yet, not without hitting the _Rainbow_!"

"_What the hell are they trying to do besides use it as a shield? Board the carrier?_"

"_With what, eight troops?_" Sun asked as his machine went into fighter mode.

"_Sun, get ahold of the situation!_" Lieutenant Colonel Armonia ordered.

"_Yes ma'am!_"

The Taurus troops had difficulty maintain visual contact as they buzzed around the back of the carrier, but they could still make out the three of the Leo troops turning their weapons from anti-air screening to the ship they were perched upon, before pouring fire into the already-damaged decks.

"_Damn it, _Rainbow_, do something about those Leos!_"

"_We're trying!_" From two dorsal access hatches, some of the carrier's combat engineers emerged and exchanged fire with the boarders, only to be overwhelmed.

"This is Spada 2-1! We can't repel the boarders with only two mobile suits at a time!" Pilot Officer Liu shouted into his helmet. On his starboard display, another combat engineer took a shot to the primary camera before and stopped firing.

He grit his teeth. "What are we supposed to do here? Scream them down?" he asked as he kept firing from the open hatch.

"_This is the _Hanoi_, we are on our approach! Requesting permission to fire on the _Over the Rainbow_!_"

On the overbridge on _Barge_, Lieutenant Colonel North pounding his hand against the nearby computer console. "Permission granted, just get rid of those mobile suits!"

"_Captain, that screening ship is making its run!_" one Pioneer Leo warned on its own channel.

"_I see it! Fire the beam cannon, then all units, withdraw!_"

"_Acknowledged!_" As the _Hanoi_'s shadow kept closer across the massive carrier, two of the Pioneer Leos dragged the captured beam cannon directly to the cavity left by the others' earlier attack and began the firing sequence. The _Hanoi _had already begun firing across the stern of the carrier when they fired a full-powered blast into the interior decks: an explosion bellowed outwards, washing over them as the _Hanoi _forced the other troops to disperse.

"_The _Rainbow _is burning! I repeat, the _Over the Rainbow _is burning from the inside!_"

Its bridge was bathed entirely in red warning lights, while the captain secured the helmet on her normal suit. "How could a few Leos do this?" she demanded angrily, before pushing herself to a control subsection.

"All ships, our starboard engine bank is completely disabled! We've got drive system failures all over!" an officer announced.

"_Diamond Actual to the _Rainbow_!_ _Watch your vector, you're advancing directly on the _Asakai!"

"Wait, what? Shit!"

"Rainbow_, take evasive action! You will collide!_" Arrow Actual shouted.

The captain pushed the officer out of the way and screamed into the microphone. "Didn't you hear us, damn it? They've destroyed one of the engine banks and the control systems on this piece of junk! We've lost all control! All hands, abandon ship!"

Behind a trail of fire and burning debris, the remainder of the Pioneer Leo squadron watched as the _Over the Rainbow _continued in its sharp, altered trajectory, diving directly for the smaller _Admiral Asakai_. Even as she plunged her beam saber into the cockpit of a combat engineer's machine, Soletta turned in time to watch the gap between the two massive ships shrink gradually, bit by bit, until finally they collided. The _Over the Rainbow_'s bow struck the _Admiral Asakai _just below its command tower, scrapping and grinding away its momentum until it velocity was reduced to just over a tenth what it had been. Then what was left of the _Admiral Asakai _began to ignite the ship that had struck it. The Alliance troops taking cover on their stricken carrier had already evacuated from their position when ordnance began to cook-off inside massive internal hangars.

**V**

"Repeat that again, please."

"Yes Your Excellency," Flight Officer Bonati opened the leather case around his digital tablet and brought it to Treize Khushrenada's side as he sat behind his desk at Antonio Maceo Air Force Base, OZ's forward base in Far East Cuba. Posted on the wall behind him was an old fashioned paper map of the nearby island republic of Haiti, with blue and red markers identifying OZ and ex-Alliance battalions respectively.

"A precision strike from what must have been Alliance Leo troops disabled part of the _Over the Rainbow_'s propulsion systems mid-maneuver, and it collided directly with the already-disabled carrier _Admiral Asakai_, the command ship at Midway. Both ships are lost, and both our forces and the Noventans are diverting away from the wrecks." He tapped the smooth screen, changing the image. "They're still…exploding, apparently."

Treize took the tablet, yanked off one of his gloves and swept his finger across the screen, bringing up a short video recording of the fragmenting carriers exploding in bursts.

"It seems we fell for their trap."

"If so, it was quite an ingenious one. They let us destroy one of their largest carrier first."

Treize returned the tablet to Bonati and glanced at Master Aircrew Serrati. "We're certainly missing out down here."

"Yes, Your Excellency," Serrati replied, sounding relieved.

Behind the Midway Line, the wreck of one massive carrier rolled free of another, trailing fire and explosions along the way. OZ's troops had begun regrouping within range of the defensive guns on their cruisers, while the Alliance's own had seemingly scattered.

There were exceptions. The _Sarajevo _was cut off, exchanging fire with the superiorly-armed enemy light cruiser. Aboard CV-106, the crew had already donned their helmets and were preparing for the worse.

"_Sarajevo _to _Europa_, we are still cut off and have lost half of our defensive armament! Repeat, _Sarajevo _to _Europa, _respond!"

"Look!" a bridge officer screeched, pointing as a violet mobile suit closed through the antiaircraft fire and was now only seventy meters ahead, a charging beam cannon in its hands.

The captain didn't wait. "Evacuate the bridge!" he shouted, turning back forward just in time to be blinded by beam fire—not from the Leo's beam cannon, but from beyond his field of view. The blinded Leo weaved out of the Shuivan 1's wave of charged particles, and the first thing Captain Soletta saw when her cockpit displays reset was a black blur charging right for her.

"_Shit!_" Shuivan 1 brought its long-barreled beam cannon down on the Leo's cranium but missed, bashing its left shoulder instead.

"_You're a real troublemaker, you know that?_" Soris taunted as the _Sarajevo _began a sharp turn. The Leo jettisoned its beam cannon and reached for its shoulder-mounted shield.

"Try shooting that thing instead of using it as a club!" Soletta shouted back as her machine reached for its beam saber, only to watch as the Vayeate's left manipulator grabbed her machine's right arm, stopping it dead and leaving her listening to the servometers whining and straining. "…Damn it! Let go of me, you monster!"

"_Monster? I like that!_" the smooth, pleasant voice responded. Her mobile suit rocked again, as the Vayeate began ripping the Leo's arm out of its socket. A shrill alarm went off and one of her MFDs switched over to systems diagnostic, with multiple entries highlighted in red.

Dutifully covering the retreating carrier with a wall of defensors, Shuivan 2 watched its counterpart pull and wrench the Leo apart. The older mobile suit struggled uselessly, emitting sparks and leaking coolant.

"_Sister, dear, stop showing off_," Luna announced stiffly.

Soris snickered. "Of course, right." With a swift yanking of the controls, the Vayeate tore the Leo's right arm free from its body. The rest of the mobile suit spun free, its shoulder-mounting shield breaking off as well. Shuivan 1 level its beam cannon back at her again.

"_It's over, friend._"

"_Like hell it is!_" A spot on the Leo, just right of the cockpit door, sparked and began glowing red, and both mobile suits shielded themselves.

"_She's gonna' blow!_"

Instead, a compartment in the torso popped before emitting blinding flash, one much brighter and lasting several seconds longer than a beam cannon being fired, glowing blue-white rather than yellow. Simultaneously, Captain Soletta opened her cockpit hatch and closed her eyes even as her helmet polarized from the light pouring in. Groping blindly, she felt the edge of the hatch, pulled herself to the left, then flung herself away from her machine. She kept drifting off as the flash died away, using her small propulsion pack to thrust her way along.

"_That wasn't a fuel explosion_," Luna announced calmly.

"Yes, I see that," Soris replied in kind, checking her instrumentation. "I'm not detecting her, there's way too much interference."

"_Shuivan 1, Shuivan 2, if you're done floating there, the _Sarajevo _would appreciate the cover__!_" North barked over the same channel.

"_Affirmative, _Barge."

"_All other call signs, regroup at the new operations points!_"

Atop a disabled Alliance destroyer, Kanna's mobile suit scanned the horizon once more before it stopped firing its beam rifle. "_Arrow 1-2 at the forward point, they're falling back!_"

"_I see that, Kanna._" Even with their sensors suffering and the loss of the _Over the Rainbow_, this was still a serious defeat for the Noventans. Walker could see that from below the plane of engagement. "_Arrow 1-2, Arrow 1-3, form up on Saber flight and screen the _Asakai _for any stragglers. I'll join you at three-two-six…_"

"Barge _to Arrow Actual, come in_."

In his cockpit, Walker saw a LED flash indicating a message on a separate frequency, then pressed the key to switch over. "Go ahead, _Barge_."

"_Walker, we've got a problem._"

"What kind of a problem?"

"_Six combat engineers, including Spada 2-1, aren't accounted for._"

"You mean Pilot Officer Liu?"

"_That's right. He was aboard the _Rainbow _during the collision._"

Glancing at his primary display, he saw what was left of the _Bremen _and the remains of a patrol ship, along with a disabled Pioneer Leo. "Should I go looking for him?"

"_The combat engineers are already doing that. We've got bigger problems now. Return to the _Europa _immediately, I'll meet you there._"

"Yes sir," he replied while pressing another key. "Kanna?"

"_That was a long silence, what's up?_"

"Take Mazuri and take the new point. I'm returning to the cruiser."

"_Problem?_"

"No, just procedure," he lied unconvincingly.

**VI**

While most of the Taurii remained in the field, Walker returned to the _Europa_, finding North waiting for him in the hangar alongside Bishop, still wearing his normal suit.

"Dac, what's going on?" he asked as he floated down before saluting North.

Dac gave a helpless shrug.

"We confirmed Spada 2-1 is still out of contact," North explained. "Bishop here is going to transfer to Squadron 6 of the Ninety-First Regiment and assist with the search. Or what's left of it."

Bishop straightened his posture. "Ah-…yes, apparently the whole regiment is scattered, more than half their machines were disabled after the _Over the Rainbow _went down."

"I think I saw one of the regiment's motherships outside, the damage looked pretty bad."

"Same for the pilots too, F/L."

"You'll be joining me on a related task," North explained, before turning to Dac and saluted. Dac salute back quickly and took off, helmet in hand.

"I wanted to ask, sir…"

"Why we're specifically looking for Liu Enlai?"

"Exactly that, Colonel."

"Someone found out Liu was missing even before we did, right when the media heard the _Over the Rainbow _had been lost," North explained with a sigh. "They contacted _Barge _directly."

"Who?"

North didn't answer immediately. "Did you know Liu came from money?"

"No, not at all, sir. He never mentioned where he came from."

"You can never tell with the colonials; Liu was a member of one of the ruling old clans from L5. Unlike you and me, he was born into power." North gave an apologetic smile. "That sounds rather prejudiced, doesn't it?"

"And they want…?"

"Just a sit down and some assurances, personally delivered. Per Representative Song's request, OZ hasn't met with any of the old families at L5. We're not supposed to interfere with local politics, but I think we may have to make an exception for this. Before they go to the media with their story."

The two men looked at each other in silence, the corner of North's lip twitching very slightly. "I'm forgetting something, aren't I…oh, yes! Of course. The battle."

"Sir!" Walker stood at attention.

He gave Walker a pat on the back. "The Noventa Strategic Operation will be continued by the Space Forces Navy. Now, get yourself a dress uniform, we're going out."

"Sir!" Another salute and click of the heels.

North watched Walker leave. _Now, to find out how they—whoever they are—knew about this before we did._

On the _Africana_, the pace of activity had likewise slowed down by the time Arroway returned to the bridge. Her XO saluted as she sat back on her throne with a twirl of her cloak. Grumman came running after her, stopping only in front of the armored bay viewports.

"My God!" He turned. "Are these all the survivors?"

"We've counted seven returning mobile suits and three returning ships, all badly damaged," the XO explained detachedly.

"That's it?"

"It's possible more will return from the battlefield periphery yet," the XO elaborated as an officer leaned down to speak the Admiral quietly. Arroway nodded and turned to an overhead display monitor. The video feed changed from a recon spacecraft to the primary camera of a mobile suit, as a woman in a normal suit maneuvered carefully into the Leo's open left manipulator. She gave a thumbs up in the direction of the camera before attaching her harness to a mounting point under her.

Arroway smiled behind a gloved hand. Grumman saw it nonetheless. "This was…a complete disaster."

"Calm yourself, General."

"Calm?! How can you be calm? The entire Ventei Line Defense Force was wiped out!" he shouted. To his side, a bridge officer snickered behind his own hand. Grumman shot him an angry look before turning back.

"OZ suffered severe losses, move forward and force them back!"

"Now you're just being ridiculous, General."

"They've withdrawn all their mobile suits! We could route them through the line!"

The XO cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Actually, the effect of the electromagnetic pulse from the initial nuclear barrage has severely compromised our detection fields. There may be some OZ forces moving covertly, but they'll be detected as soon as they leave the area."

Grumman stared at Arroway, then at the other officers, before storming out. Arroway laughed loudly, raising her fan to her hand before bracing herself against her seat as she shook.

About three thousand kilometers away, under the protection of a flight of Taurus troops, a pair of windowless four-engine cargo shuttles in civilian livery slowly continued in their elliptical orbit. Both the mobile suits and the spacecraft had throttled down and moved silently along their transfer orbit. Inside one of the cargo ship, Eva Cebotari and Edward Parsons waited in civilian normal suits, huddled against a cargo crate.

"I'm not sure how much more of this I can take," Parsons muttered, twitching in his normal suit.

Major Cebotari smiled. "Uncomfortable? You'll be a lot less comfortable if an Alliance patrol finds us."

Parsons nervously kicked the crate with foot but said nothing in response. A CAST commando in full combat gear glanced over at him before turning back. He tried to make himself comfortable as the major smiled at him knowingly.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_I'm actually embarrassed how long this took considering how short this chapter was. My only excuses were this month I had to deal with both an expected crisis and an unexpected one. _

_A big battle, inspired in part by watching _EVE: Online _battles on Youtube! _


	40. A Series of Mistakes

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 40 – A Series of Mistakes**

There was still combat going on not far beyond the Midway defensive line when Oswald Walker and Marcus North left, with a bodyguard detail, for L1-B-991. The colony was one of the last built by United Republics of China, with an appreciable East China, particularly Shanghai influence. Once again, Flight Lieutenant Walker spotted the telltale signs of a newer colony: the lack of unrepaired micrometeorite damage, the consistency of signal lights, and so forth.

Lieutenant Colonel North was more preoccupied with the papers in his hand. "We're meeting with a Li Z…a Mr. Li whose name I would butcher and is authorized to speak on behalf of the big shots at L5."

Walker looked away from the window and checked the file in his own hand. "The Military Commissariat confirmed his credentials."

North nodded. "That's actually what bothered me: why would the top Triad clan at L5 care about one MS Troops Officer Cadet? We haven't even confirmed Liu is M.I.A. yet."

Walker looked up. "That…does seem a little strange, sir."

North chuckled softly, closing his file and leaning towards Walker. "We'll be landing soon, I think I'll fix myself up."

Walker blinked, looking down at his uniform before nodding. "Of course," he said, as North left his seat and floated down the aisle, only stopping at the coat closet in front of the shuttle lavatories. By the time he returned, Walker had stowed his files and was reading something else.

"What's that?"

Walker looked up to see North floating over in full dress uniform, smoothing a crease in his long black cape. He humorously held up the paperback. "Bought it at a bookstore back during a visit to a colony."

"Where?"

Walker barely caught himself. "...just a colony in L2, a few weeks back."

North scrutinized the faded cover. "Ah, Mencken. I can't believe I didn't recognize it," he said, shaking his head.

"You've read it?"

"I've read all of his work. You can't be an American in the Special Troops without reading _the _American Nietzsche," he said with a laugh. "Is _Treatise on the Gods_ your first of his?"

Walker nodded. "Yes sir."

"What do you think of it?"

Walker flipped through the book. "I think that it would be a serious challenge to try and claim the author of _this _book wasn't a deep-rooted anti-Semite who wasn't ultimately embarrassed about his beliefs being shown up by the rise of European fascism."

North gave a sharp laugh. "Yes, Mencken was quite a character. If you're looking for a good time, read some of his prose on the 'American Negro', and his subsequent half-handed backpedaling."

Walker opened the book again. "It sounds like he was on the wrong side of history."

"More like he couldn't decide which side he was on. He was happy to damn the leftists of his time for the Soviet purges, but when Germany obliterated one race and moved on to another, he suddenly didn't have much to say on the topic." North winked at him. "He had a bad case of historic foot-in-mouth syndrome."

"You're well-versed with him, sir?"

"Well, I am the direct descendant of one of those 'American Negros'," he chuckled. "Our blood, like that of the Slavs, wasn't worth that much."

Walker sighed, his eyes stilled trained on the book. "Maybe I should have read Solzhenitsyn instead."

"What about Jünger? Is_ Storm of Steel_ still required reading at Lake Victoria?"

"Of course, sir. Did he write anything else?"

"Oh, a few things. Then again, maybe you'd be trading one fascist for another," he said, holding back more laughter.

"See, sir, this is why Dac doesn't read."

"I'm joking. I'm actually a fan of Jünger. I still re-read _The Glass Bees _once a year."

**II**

Captain Soletta floated the last fifty meters into the hangars of the EASFS _Africana _under her own power, pushing herself off the open manipulator of the OZ-06SMS that had rescued her after she bailed from her own mobile suit.

Having exhausted her propellant, upon clearing the hangar door, she had no choice but to halt herself by catching the hook of her utility cable on a handhold and tumbling to a halt.

The hangar chief floated over to help her, only to have her push him away.

"_They're waiting for you, Captain._"

Abruptly Soletta gave a hacking cough, lining the hardened glass with red, before holding her hand up.

"_Captain, are you…?_"

"_I'm fine,_" she answered over the shortwave radio as the Leo that delivered her made a careful landing. "_Just shook up. You'd be too if you were ripped out of your mobile suit like that, Chief._"

He stood back. "_I…I'm sorry, ma'am._"

Once in a pressurized hallway, Soletta removed her helmet and wiped her face on the sleeve of her normal suit before taking in a deep breath. "That was a long time to be in one of these, even for me," she said, her long curly hair bobbing behind her. Her expression softened a little. "Sorry for biting at you like that."

"Nothing to apologize for, Captain. The Defense Minister wanted to see you."

"Of course. Do I have five minutes?"

"I think so."

"Good—get me a clean uniform."

In less than ten minutes, Soletta, now in a fresh, starched uniform, strolled onto the bridge in her magnetized riding boots. Admiral Arroway looked half-awake, lounging on her throne.

"Defense Minister, ma'am, I'm reporting in," she said, as Arroway opened her eyes and gestured apathetically at the general standing in front of him.

"Captain…Captain, what was that?" he sputtered out. "That was nearly a third of our total naval forces, lost in a complete route! What were you doing out there?"

She stared at him, honestly not angry—his voice plainly betrayed panic and confusion, even if his words themselves were only accusatory. "General Grumman, sir, my own squadron was tasked with disabling OZ's largest operational carrier, which we did. However, I do assume full responsibility for failing to do so before our own carrier, the _Admiral Asakai_, was lost."

She gave an impressive humbly but swift bow. Grumman just stared at her, then at Arroway, who twirled her folded fan in her hand.

"Are you satisfied, General?"

Grumman opened his mouth, shut it, and then floated towards the exit with a meager "Excuse me."

Soletta watched him leave before turning back to her commanding officer. "To be clear, Admiral, I am genuinely remorseful about not having been fast enough."

"Don't be. We can only do so much with what we're given," Arroway responded with a smile. "What I saw of you was magnificent—you live up to your reputation from the _Ganymede_."

"Thank you, Admiral."

"You're dismissed."

She saluted, turned on her heels and floated away. As she left, Arroway's XO glanced at her.

"Anything to get Grumman to shut up," she explained loudly without looking at him. He cracked another smile.

**III**

"So, that's it?"

Flight Officer Bradley, of the Space Forces Mobile Suit Troops, awkwardly handled the report presented to him with his left hand. His right arm was still in a sling, one in the list of injuries he'd sustained when Gundam-02 attacked OZ's colonial troops recruitment center, and the colony's military forces themselves.

"Well, the pilot was captured almost immediately afterwards, and is still in captivity. Really, the only damage was to the military."

"And to the enlisted men and women killed during the attack," Bradley snapped, slamming the clipboard against his desk. The noncommissioned officer briefing him jumped back a little. "You know, I'm beginning to _seriously consider _that the Colonials care even less about the welfare of their young people than Earth does!"

He looked up at the NCO through his left eye, the right one covered with a bandage. "I apologize for that, Warrant Officer, that was over the line."

"There's no need, sir."

Bradley turned back to the report. "Then again, it seems all blame was cast on Schbeiker. This seems incredibly lenient given what happened."

He glanced back at the NCO. "Something on your mind?"

The other straightened his posture. "Just something I'd heard about the Colony Liberation Organization's pilot, sir, the one who attacked us."

"What was that?"

"Something about being the _Shinigami_…the God of Death."

Bradley glanced at the monitor for the computer built into his desk. "Well, I don't imagine such a pilot, or any Gundam pilot, would care for the distinction between an unarmed recruiting office and an armed military installation."

He tapped a key, and brought up a piece of evidence—the CCTV recording of the shuttle terminal where the new recruits were to board for a nearby colonial flight school.

"_Hey you, stop there! I told you recruit sign-ups were next week! Let me see your paperwork!_" That was her.

"_Oh, what…this? I'm sure it all checks out!_" That was the Gundam pilot.

Then, as the recording showed, everything went mad. The pilot attacked an officer about to leave on patrol, stole his normal suit then stole his mobile suit.

"_He's taking the Leo! After him!_" That was Bradley's own voice. The video ended soon after, though not before, just as he remembered, the Gundam pilot threatened to discharge his beam rifle inside the hangar. Fortunately, he refrained from killing every single person in the area, and simply tried to flee.

_This recording, and my testimony, would have earned her at least an honorary citation, or even the Colonial Cross. _And it would have, if it weren't for what Pilot Officer Schbeiker had done next.

_"Did he tell you anything?_" That wasn't on the video, only in his mind, of the carrier ride back after capturing the Gundam Pilot and preparing to transfer him to Luna, after she'd interviewed him, as she requested

_"Not a word."_

_"I see."_

_"Sir, when we were fighting just now…couldn't we have just fired a warning shot?_"

_"Hild, you gave him a vocal warning, and he fired back at you. We have orders to fight armed rebels when necessary, and this was very necessary. That's what war is about, after all._"

_"Even if that means sacrificing your own people?"_

_"Ms. Schbeiker,"_ he'd told her, interrupting his own report. _"I feel bad telling you this, but the fact is a soldier must be prepared to do his duty, even if it means dying._"

Then, over Luna, the pilot exploded one of the carrier's engines and fled a second time. This time, he had help from Schbeiker, who vainly attacked patrolling mobile dolls with a mobile suit.

_"If that's what you're going to do, Hild, just…don't die in vain!"_ That's what the Gundam pilot had said to her, without response.

_"Schbeiker, what the hell do you think you're doing? Jettison your weapons immediately! I have a serious damn problem with your conduct!" _That was Bradley again, who crawled bleeding into a mobile suit after having bashed his arm—and his face—against part of the cabin when the carrier was sabotaged. He, and two other Leo flights, secured the rogue pilot, who had the good sense not to fire back then, as he meticulously detailed in his report.

_If anything had been different—if she'd fired back, if the Taurus troops had been manned, anything—she would have gotten a firing squad. If there's such a thing as justice in this disturbed world. _Bradley rose to his feet and turned to the NCO. "Let's go tell her what's in store for her."

"A dishonorable discharge and time served. It's…very progressive, sir."

"It's goddamn humanitarian. OZ, or at least the OZ you know, has all the intimidating might of a wet paper bag."

**IV**

North and Walker sat inside an armored limousine, escorted by a military jeep of the common model used by the Earth Army, through the crowded streets of B-991. There seemed to be an abundance of civil defense activity, as volunteers in white helmets and unmistakable dark green armbands directed the flow of pedestrian and automotive traffic.

_These are the people who actually live out here. For them, the war isn't maps with front lines moving back and forth—it's just something that comes, and that's it. Not some mathematical or theoretical occurrence, but an event. _Walker watched quietly as they passed a government building with an old Alliance insignia replaced with the local colonial flag.

North was, out of the corner of his eye, watching not the landscape but Walker, who sat opposite of a much larger bodyguard. A memory flashed, very briefly, in his mind; Zechs Merquise, in his uniform in front of a military policeman, on his way to the military court at UESASACOM in Buenos Aires.

He forced it from his mind. "You know, Flight Lieutenant, I'm glad to have brought you along, even if it was just a matter of convenience."

"Sir?"

The colonel favored him with a subtle grin. "You seem to have your act together. Up here, in Outer Space, the company officers seem to have been splitting into two groups: the introvert technical minds, and the extrovert killing machines. I suppose it's the price for fighting nonstop against an enemy that almost always loses, but can always call on reinforcements."

"I...see, sir."

"You seem to be holding it together, Walker. The low gravity hasn't gotten to you."

"Thank you, Lieutenant Colonel."

"I hope our distinguished representative is grateful to," he added. "Contrary to the image of OZ, certified engineers like you aren't readily available right now. Nichol was canned by OZ, and Clark missed out on the whole operation."

"Trant Clark, sir?"

North raised an eyebrow. "You didn't know? Sequestered by the ever-popular Tubarov Villemont," he elaborated. "With you on the frontline, Luna's squadrons were supposed to meet our battlefield engineering needs, but with the _Over the Rainbow_ lost…"

The car made a sharp turn, the driver mumbling a complaint about the traffic.

"A fortunate coincidence. They practically demanded an engineer, if one of Liu's comrades wasn't directly available."

Another sharp turn, then the limousine stopped. _I really hate coincidences! _Walker grimaced and nodded at North, who was now staring forward.

"What happened?"

The driver responded. "Sir, it's completely backed up. The entire avenue is closed off, looks like a military convoy."

The two watched as several old fashion troop trunks, painted in urban camouflage colors, slowly crept by at the intersection, followed by more equally-slow military traffic. Far behind them were a number of main battle tanks sitting on wheeled transporters. "So we can't even blame someone else," North observed as the bodyguard in front of him reached for his mobile.

"Colonel, I'll have a helicopter sent immediately."

North was about to answer when Walker cut him off. "How far are we from the meeting place?"

The bodyguard glanced at his mobile's screen, as did Walker. "Between five and six blocks, sir. Maybe two-hundred meters by foot?"

North rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly. "Walker, I hate to ask, but…"

Walker had already opened the car door. "I'm on it, sir."

"Take one man with you."

"Sir, I don't think…"

"I'm not budging on that. Can you imagine the report? Flight Lieutenant survives Noventa Strategic Offensive Operation, only to get killed in a botched mugging in a colony for a meeting he shouldn't even have been at."

"I understand, sir," he said, before pointing at the nearest bodyguard. "You, Master Aircrewmen."

"Yes sir." He opened the adjacent door and both men exited the car. Walker leaned back in and looked at North.

"As the operation demonstrated, sir, I'm not an outstanding pilot. But as an officer, I'm nothing if not punctual," he said proudly before leaning out and closing the door, leaving North smiling back at him.

Having cleared the gridlock, Walker and the uniform-wearing NCO tried as casually as they could to continue to their destination, past the saluting enlisted men and women at the occasional checkpoint along the way.

"Do you have much experience in this, sir?" the master aircrewman asked.

"Public relations? Or stalling for time with a VIP?" Walker asked back as the two waited at a crossing line for a woman in civil defense clothes to signal.

He took a moment. "Either, sir?"

"No, not particularly."

The two looked at one another and began laughing loudly as the crossing guard blew her whistle and gestured them to cross the avenue. They were within sight of the meeting area: an upscale Asian Fusion restaurant, built above a glitzy discothèque. The midday clientele was small but clearly wealthy B-991's well-dressed high society. People, Walker felt, that were not much older than him, but wealthier than he'd ever be.

Glancing at his wristwatch, Walker gestured the NCO to continue. "Come on."

"Yes sir!"

The ground floor looked inconspicuous enough—except for the two, large suit-wearing men covering the stairs up. _Booked for a special occasion, I see._ Walker and the bodyguard approached.

"Are you from OZ?"

"What gave it away?" Walker asked humorously, before immediately regretting it.

The two suits seemed to take them apart through their sunglasses for a moment. "Where's Colonel North?"

For a moment, Walker considered asking why _he _couldn't have been Colonel North, but was struck by the ridiculousness of it. "Lieutenant Colonel North has been delayed because of circumstances beyond our control, but he _will_ be joining us and apologizes for the mishap."

"Beyond your control?" the suit on the left asked.

"There are plenty of circumstances beyond our control," Walker said, again humorously and again regretting it. "I'm Flight Lieutenant Walker, of the Seventh Division and engineering specialist."

He leaned a bit, looking past the large man and up the stairs. "Don't you need to tell that to your boss?"

This time he managed to match the intent stare from the pair of sunglasses, and the suit on the right relented before going up the stairs. The bodyguard, more a match for the two suits, relaxed his posture.

"Have you done this before, Flight Lieutenant?"

"No, never," he mumbled back, keeping his eyes trained up the stairway. The suit returned in short order.

"I've informed the Boss. Terms have changed."

"And, again, I'm sorry about that," Walker added helpfully.

"He'll still see you, so long as you follow the rules."

"I'm prepared to do so," he said. _I hope I don't regret that. _

The suit led both of them up the narrow staircase to the level overlooking the dance floor. The ostentatious faux-Chinese style décor grew louder, with bright red walls with green trim and ornate archways and molding. A few more suit-wearing men stood at the entrance to a private room, around one that was obviously in charge. Walker and the NCO stopped in front of him and politely bowed their heads.

"Thank you for entertaining our request, Mr. Walker," the Long Clan representative said, extending a hand in friendship. "I understand Mr. North has been delayed."

Swallowing his reluctance, Walker took it and shook it. "Thank _you_ for honoring our terms of meeting," he said, glancing at the representative's associate, another large, suit-wearing man with his expression hidden by large sunglasses. He opened the private room and the representative stepped inside.

"OZ was wise to try and send someone who appreciated our concerns," he said, gesturing to the small table in the rather large meeting room. "Before we begin, a mere formality," he insisted.

Walker nodded. "Of course," he said, and with slow, deliberate movements, he opened his leather holster and took out his sidearm and, butt first, handed it to the associate. The representative simultaneously did the same, unbuttoning his blazer and taking out his own chrome-polished semi-automatic pistol, as Walker identified it, and presenting it to him. Walker took out a compact contraband scanner, just bigger than a deck of cards, and ran it over both the representative and himself. It detected no other weapons.

"My brother, and your man, will provide security and we can finally discuss in private."

Walker turned to the NCO and nodded and stepped out of the room. The other large man nodded and without a word left, closing the door behind him, and the representative sat down behind the table and tapped the built-in controls, audibly locking the door. They both sat down.

"Seeing how you know my name, would mind telling who I am speaking to, now that we're here?" he asked, glancing at the supposedly secure, shielded, sound-proof walls.

He nodded and smiled. "Of course, and I do appreciate your patience. I am Li Zǐméi. My maternal uncle is Master Long of L5-A-0206."

He rested a hand on the table. "I'll get right to the point: I've brought you, and Colonel North, here under somewhat false pretenses."

Walker wasn't particularly upset about hearing that. _That sounds like something I would say. _"Please elaborate."

"Officer Cadet Liu Enlai was a relation of mine, though a very distant one. I'm not proud of it, but I used his disappearance as a pretext for meeting with OZ."

"And you didn't contact Ambassador Une's office?"

"We've tried that, with no success."

_Well, that's believable. _

Li continued. "See, Mr. Walker, I'm here to ensure the survival of both the Long Clan of L5 and of my colony. And to do that, I believe it is in our best interests to come to a settlement with both OZ and our neighbors in Outer Space."

Walker listened closely, but didn't respond.

"Master Long, and the other elders—our top officers and Master Long's deputy—fail to see the writing on the wall. We cannot keep conducting ourselves as an Underground Society. The Long Clan fled China for precisely that reason, and we're rapidly running out of places to hide." He sighed, his voice taking on a more contemplative tone. "You may not know this, but the Longs are the last of the triads. Even as we ignore it, that way of life has disappeared. I don't think it will last another year."

_Michael Wú said the same thing to me once. _Walker nodded slowly and let Li continue.

"I need to do this, even if my brothers and comrades are opposed to any negotiations with OZ and continue to isolate us from our neighbors. I believe I can save the Long Clan, but I'll need the help, at the approval, of the military to do so."

"How do you plan to sway your countrymen, Mr. Li?"

"The only way I can, with the truth: that in After Colony 194, OZ acted on its own authority, against the Alliance military, to stop biological weapons from being used against our colony. I believe you are familiar with the incident?"

_That _surprised Walker, as images of his time in the Heero Yuy Memorial Library flashed in his mind, reading those books on Eva's orders. _So that's why I've been sent here: information control. _"Yes, I am. And what you describe is correct: the Special Mobile Suit Troops traditionally had their command authority independent of the Alliance command structure. They used it to force a military solution instead of a one involving gassing the colony, though they were killed by the colony paramilitary forces."

"Unfortunately, Master Long has come to ensure his continued power, in his very advanced age, through much coercion and disinformation. If Song, our official representative to the colonial congress, were to acquire proof of what happened a year ago, he would have the supported needed to crush the triads, and the military means to do it. I must do it first."

Walker nodded. "I now understand why you're so adamant for secrecy. You're making yourself a wanted man, Mr. Li."

"An unfortunate consequence of life in a triad," Li dismissed with a smile. "If you can provide me with the information needed, and OZ's tacit support for my faction in the Long Clan, I will promise to do my utmost to make L5-A-0206 amenable to OZ after the Long Clan finally discards its criminal elements."

Li stared at Walker, now feeling more than a little intimidated by the conversation.

"Certainly worth your time more than a missing soldier, I think?"

"How would you do that?"

"I'll ensure that Song can serve out the length of his term, and will end the secret war the Longs have had with his administration. After that, anyone from the Long Clan will have to run in regular, open elections, just as he did."

_Does he know I don't really have the authority to make this decision on my own?_ Still, he was here now. Leaning towards him across the table, he decided to take a risk.

"I think you'll need to do more, Mr. Li."

"You mean the Gundam _Shenglong_—or rather, its pilot, Chang Wufei."

_That's the name_, Walker thought. "Any political movement that OZ backs must match Song's position on the Gundams, or surpass it. On that we cannot compromise."

He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, and images of the Gundam attack on the Lake Victory Academy flashed by—the burning barracks, the Aries troops being cut down, the exploding airlifters—causing him to shiver. "_Especially _concerning the fifth Gundam."

Li pursed his lips. "Master Long isn't so deluded. He knows that L5-A-0206 is beyond repair, and he realizes his clan will be welcomed nowhere else. The Gundam was once ours, or perhaps more accurately, his. But he knows time is running out. It is impossible to say what he really thinks of the Gundams, perhaps he has traded one fantasy for another. But those beneath him endorse the Gundams wholeheartedly."

"Then you'll need to contend with them," Walker warned. "Any deal made here requires that."

Li nodded less than enthusiastically. The two sat in silence when Li looked up.

"We've talked about much. Perhaps we should have some refreshments," Li said, tapping the controls on the table and unlocking the door. He was about to call out to his partner when the large man toppled backwards into the room through the now-open door. The three bullet holes, closely spaced, in his chest suggested he'd been shot against the shielded door. Beyond the door, the hallway had darkened, the room's lights going out. Walker almost seized up when he made out what he was certain were the polished buttons and insignia on the uniform of the master aircrewmen who'd come with him.

In the gloom, Walker could hear slow, deliberate footsteps against the hardwood floors.

Out of the gloom, her arms rigidly at the sides, was a tall woman in a black-and-dark grey motorcycle suit buffed to a fine shine. The formfitting suit squeaked a little with each step, a giveaway that it was made of leather. Once she entered the room, her pale face, wavy hair and brown eyes were visible.

"Maya…Barton?"

Maya Barton, recognizable without her thin-rimmed glasses, stared at the two of them with no discernible expression.

"You know…her…?" Li began carefully, as she jerkily raised her right arm, straight out. In her hand was a semi-automatic pistol, black and grey like her leathers. Heart racing, Walker spotted that fixed forward of the trigger guard was a small metal box which extended to just ahead of the muzzle, a single red LED lit on the right side.

"Oswald Walker…you will come with me," she said in her very small voice.

"With you where?" Walker asked, unable to stop himself. In response, Maya shifted her aim just enough to firing a pair of metal probes on long, thin wires into his chest. That's all he saw before the world shook violently and blackened.

Before passing out, he lasted for a few more seconds, which was long enough to hear Maya's second quiet proclamation.

"Li Zǐméi…is not needed," she told him, followed by the distinctive report of a gunshot.

**V**

Colonel North was still sitting inside the parked limousine when a Space Forces naval officer ran up to him and saluted.

"Lieutenant Colonel North, sir!" he asked, almost out of breath.

"Take a moment, Lieutenant, we're in no rush here, as you can see," he muttered dryly.

"Sir…I understand that, sir, and I wanted to apologize," he said, gesturing to the military convoy that had choked off the avenue intersection. "The colonial militia shouldn't even be here!"

"Well, war has a tendency to take us out of our element," North responded calmly, standing up from the car.

"No, sir, I mean they _literally _shouldn't be _here_. We'd prepared an entire mobilization plan for H-Hour. All colonial militia convoys were supposed to be on a major artery, not bogged down in some side throughway like World Cup weekend! For God's sake, you'd think garrison troops could prepare for local movements in their own hometown!"

"Excuse me?"

"There must have been some misprint in orders recently, rest assure sir, we will find out who fouled up and…"

"What a minute, what you just said—your mobilization orders were changed? How recently?"

The captain blinked. "It must have been just a few hours ago, I checked the orders personally yesterday, sir."

North stared at him, his mouth agape. "No, it couldn't be. That's insane!"

"Sir?"

"Call Walker, now! And where's that helicopter?"

**VI**

On the last leg of its journey, the civilian shuttle crammed with CAST commandos and Military Commissariat officers were a mere two hundred kilometers from crossing into the outermost territorial space around L1-D-120.

Their Taurus escort having departed, the CAST commandos uneasily kept their eyes planted on the sensor readings for the windowless craft. Lieutenant Parsons, by contrast, sat leg-crossed in his normal suit, floating diagonally near the cabin wall.

"Eva."

Major Cebotari floated just above a cargo crate, legs together and arms behind her back, also in a normal suit.

"Eva."

"What is it, E.P.?"

"Before you trained for OZ, what did you do?"

"Nothing," was the quiet reply.

Parsons snickered. "So, what, you were training for the Military Commissariat since you were a little girl?"

"You don't know I didn't," she replied breathily.

"I'd _really _be surprised by that."

Grinning, he watched the back of her helmet for a while longer until she spoke again. "I worked in a library for a time."

"A librarian, huh?" Parsons turned his head, still leering at her. "Why's that?"

"When I was growing up in Tiraspol, I wanted to go enroll in the Alliance boarding school after passing the UCSE. One way to increase my chances was to learn English, so I spent a year in a small backwater in the Christian States, outside a place called 'Decatur'. It was very, _very _rural, but I earned a little money and had time to study English."

"I see. And you were a librarian?"

"At a small one-room public library next to an athletics field that was five times as expensive. I learned that only two kinds of people go to the library during working hours: stay-at-home mothers with their children and pensioners. The Christian States were poorer than Tiraspol then, so most people worked until they died. Pensioners were the fortunate elite."

"Sounds riveting," he added while floating about.

"Everything I did, really, could be handled by an automated system. So really, I was only there for two reasons: to help people who refused to learn to use computers, and to be talked at. Everyone else working there, except for one, were middle-aged women." Her face contorted briefly. "God, they loved to talk. They gossiped about the most trivial things, all day, on and on. Even just pretending to listen was a chore."

"Well, that's what they paid you for." He turned. "Is that where you learned to speak English?"

"No, just to read and write. The Alliance taught me how to speak. The dialect I learned there wasn't practical; it turned out everyone in the world makes fun of dialect, not just the Anglosphere." She turned and gave him a malicious-looking smile. "And if anyone ever calls me 'hon' again, I will slice open their throat."

"So, when we get to D-120, you're going to be a librarian?"

"No. I'll be infiltrating the Capitol."

"What? Damn it," he groaned.

"And you?"

"Don't ask," he snapped back as a CAST officer floated by.

"Attention, we'll be deploying twenty minutes. This is it, people, we don't get any do-overs!" he announced, pushing a smaller political officer out of his way. "Watch it, Lieutenant!"

"Sorry sir!"

"Everyone, get into your harnesses. Mess this up, and you _will_ get killed! Once you're clear of the wreckage, following your navigational computer to your designated zone! If you're found outside your designated zone, you _will_ killed!"

"Or arrested," Parsons muttered.

"Your maneuvering packs have only about 200 meters a second of velocity change. If you use all of that, and all the charges in your harpoons, you will be stranded and get killed!"

"I really enjoy his optimism," he muttered, bracing himself against the wall before pushing himself into the direction of the other political officers, all likewise wearing civilian normal suits.

Eva followed behind him, grasping a pair of handhelds on the cabin wall. "All officers, double-check the status of your nav computers and prepare to egress."

"Yes ma'am."

"Yes ma'am, Major."

"Affirmative, ma'am."

Down the line, Parsons checked the chronometer mounted on his left wrist. _These civilian suits, I keep forgetting they don't come with a HUD._ "Major, we've got another seven minutes before we disembark and the small charges go off, and then another ten before the entire shuttle explodes."

"I can feel the shuttle going into the last maneuver," another officer announced, getting an unsympathetic laugh from a passing CAST.

Blinking rapidly, Eva looked around through her helmet, first that the officers, then at the CAST squad, before pointing at one with her whole right arm.

"Captain?"

"Yes ma'am?"

"Open the doors."

The captain glanced at a very surprised looking Parsons before nodding and reaching for the controls. "Yes ma'am, opening the doors." Alarms sounded, the lights went to red and the hatches on both sides of the cabin began opening, as atmosphere rapidly vented out.

Once the torrent had passed, Parsons, still clutching the wall, shouted something before remembering to switch on his radio. "_We're leaving now?_"

"_Signal the pilots to bail._"

"_Already did ma'am._"

"_What about the timetable?_" Parsons shouted. "_Hey, don't ignore me!_"

Eva turned to him—or the crowd of officers by him—and gave a salute before throwing herself through the open hatch and into the vacuum. One by one the other officers followed, as Parsons hissed angrily in his helmet before jumping after them.

_**Author's Notes:**_

_Thankfully, I wasn't as stalled as I was previously—understandable, given that this was a shorter chapter too (probably a good thing in the long run). The D-120 'arc' is practically all original writing, since the TV series doesn't examine that part of the plot, and I'm unable to determine if _The Glory of Losers _does either, so it demands a lot of thought in return for the ability to be more original and creative._

_Maya reappears, in a less-than-subtle homage to the character who inspired her. I've been sitting on Walker's kidnapping for many months now, and I'm very pleased I finally got to use it! Hopefully, this'll go some way to address the valid criticisms that not enough of the story is about the main character from time to time._


	41. Fools Rushing In

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 41 – Fools Rushing In **

_11 September, AC 195, L1-D-120_

The Reserve Army of the Republic of Noventa, befitting its name, patrolled colonial territory with equipment not crucial to the Republican Guard or the rest of the armed forces. That meant they had no mobile suits available, and instead relied on older, frequently more massive Alliance space fighters and interceptors. The equipment, though less expensive, les impressive, and deemed inferior, was actually better suited to the task for patrolling colonial space. Nonetheless, a few Pioneer Leo troops remained on site, largely manned by officer cadets still undergoing training or pilots being rotated out from increasingly long tours.

This precise set of circumstances was what OZ's Colonial and Asteroid Strike Troops, alongside field officers of the Military Commissariat, were counting on. When the abandoned civilian shuttle elliptical orbit brought it into the area, and it began broadcasting its mayday, the fighters rapidly moved to isolate it from the rest of the civilian traffic.

In her normal suit, Eva Cebotari carefully drifted through the massive volume of empty space around the various perimeters that encircled L1-D-120, the HUD inside her helmet indicating the long path she needed to take through the automated guns and minefields, through the security rings, and into the colony itself. As her inertia slowed her down, her instrumentation would sound an alarm, and with a squeeze of her right hand she'd expel a small quantity of propellant in the right direction to remain on course.

Just minutes earlier, as the shuttle burst into a fireball when the remaining atmosphere leaked out, she'd watched the armored CAST men and the other political officers fling themselves about, trying to put as much space between them and disappear into the void.

Eva'd been either lucky or skillful so far, she genuinely wasn't sure which one. Extra-vehicular activity was still a novelty to her. She'd kept on course, and was less than an hour reaching the colony superstructure.

Coming up on the massive ring-shaped superstructure, she spotted a sensor vane reaching out in her direction. Eva extended the micronized pneumatic harpoon gun from her utility belt—small enough to hold one-handed comfortably, though she used two—and took careful aim. The tool, designed for industrial use, was popular in extra-vehicular activity and maneuvers because one well-aimed gas cartridge could do the job of several minutes of propellant burning. Squeezing the trigger, she felt herself jolt back thanks to Newton's Third Law of Motion, as the harpoon shot forward, dragging its long, thin line after it before embedding in the sensor vane.

With a triumphant smile, Eva felt the motion of the vane jerk her in new direction by the linkage between the harpoon gun's tether and her normal suit, her velocity and direction synchronized with the colony's own spin. She spooled the line back and grabbed onto the vane, climbing along it to the structure and looking for a nearby access hatch. She found one less than a hundred meters along the outer wall and scrambled for it, just as her motion sensors flashed on her HUD. Behind her, an OZ-06SMS 'Space Leo' drifted by outside—probably on a coincidental patrol by the Reserve Army, but still a close call. Her infiltration was successful.

_A little trick we picked up from the Gundam pilots. _

Now in centrifugal motion with the rest of the D-120 colony ring, Eva climbed up the access way ladder, closed a bulkhead door behind her, before unlocking and opening the one in front of her with the compact military-grade decoding computer modified into the wrist of her normal suit. A rush of air and she was inside D-120's atmosphere, as her sensors told her.

"Finally," she muttered, undoing the magnetized seals and pulling her helmet off, her long hair falling behind her, and taking a deep breath of cold air. Even out there, the air smelt and tasted more natural and familiar than the air aboard a shuttlecraft.

There was no time to delay: she rapidly stripped out of her normal suit into the very cold, very dry air, causing goose bumps to rise across her pale skin, and opened her backpack. None of the infiltrators could carry much: a single set of civilian clothes, an improvised emergency kit, a few specialty tools and electronics from the Military Commissariat, and the large thermite composition explosive pack used to destroy evidence. Shivering and exhaling clouds of vapor, she pulled on the civilian three-piece suit on sloppily, yanked the decoding computer out her normal suit's sleeve before throwing the whole suit on a pile over the thermite block. Pulling on the hem of her skirt, she set the timer on the igniter, stood back, and turned away as a dangerously bright thermite fireball completely destroyed her normal suit, the maneuvering pack and all other evidence.

As with the other Military Commissariat officers, Eva had memorized as many passageways through the colony walls into D-120's interior, and after another hour of crawling through dim passageways, she was able to cross through the exit of an emergency shelter somewhere in Old Town. Shielding her eyes, she looked up at the artificial sky and the tall, Gothic-looking architecture rising up around her.

She was in.

**II**

When Oswald Walker woke, the first thing he noticed was the sharp burning pain in his chest, immediately reminding him of what had likely been two mini-electroshock probes fired into his chest. The tear in the material of his wool uniform, just over the fold of his double-breasted tailcoat, confirmed that.

Second, he had been moved. Still feeling the tear in his uniform, he turned his head in a complete circle. He was in what looked like a clean but small working-class studio apartment, with some sparse furniture propped up against a wall and a small refrigerator in the kitchenette.

_This gravity means I must be on a colony. Maybe the same colony. _He undid a button on his collar and tried to stand up off the floor, feeling exhausted. _What time is it? How long have I been out? _

He glanced at his left wrist, only to find his watch was missing. Pulling off his white gloves, he groaned and felt his sore chest through his uniform. He'd never been tasered before—it hurt far more than he expected. He began unbuttoning his uniform tailcoat, taking short, difficult breaths.

_If this is my heart acting up again_, he thought to himself, shaking his head. Something about the situation made him feel ridiculous in his uniform and he kept undoing the buttons, yanking his tailcoat off. He felt a little better after that, even if the pain was still there.

Trying to get comfortable, he sat with his back against the door and looked around: there was one window, just left of him, with no visible catch. There were two other doors that Walker was fairly certain went to other rooms. The door that most obviously led out of the flat, opposite him, had a key lock where the deadbolt would normally be.

_They're right not to be worried about me picking the lock_. He stared at the door. _I think I've been captured. _

He made a point of checking the other two doors—to a small bathroom and a very small utility closet respectively—only to find that he wasn't just in pain, but his movements felt sluggish and difficult. He tried to go through his mind of the telltale signs of psychotropic chemical exposure or dosing, but he had enough trouble focusing on it, leaving himself knelt over the laminated floor. _Focus, I need to focus. _

He took a deep breath.

_What really matters?_ As soon as he asked himself that question, he thought of the notebook computer, the one given to him for his reports to Colonel Une. He had wisely -left it with Second Lieutenant Lindsey, Une's woman, on _Barge_. It was an enormous relief—gaining access to the Main Armaments Directorate servers, which now held detailed reports and combat data for all of OZ's in-service mobile suit designs, would have been incredibly damaging. And that was before considering who'd captured him, someone so obviously connected to the Barton Foundation…

_Maya Barton_.

The door behind him noisily opened. By the time he sluggishly turned, it had closed, and standing in front of it, looking rather at ease, was just the woman he was thinking of. She wore one of the expensive, trendy-looking white blouses with dark trim and short skirts that he'd seen her in when he first met: at least he remembered _that_. No shiny motorcyclist's leathers, and her glasses were back. She was holding a small plastic back in her left hand as she flipped on the lights. She stared at him calmly through her small glasses.

Walker stared up at her from the ground, not sure if he should be frightened or furious. He was still trying to make up his mind when she kneeled down at him, her skirt folded up against her legs carefully, as she handed him the plastic bag.

"Something for you to eat and drink," she said, rather confidently if still very quietly. He stared up at her with suspicious eyes as she set the bag down and stood up again. _She must have my mobile as well_.

Maya smoothed the creases in her skirt, adjusted her glasses and then left the room, the door audibly locking behind her.

By evening, the effect of whatever sedatives he'd been given seemed to be wearing off—he could move a little more easily, but more importantly, he could think more clearly. He finally had the presence of mind to investigate his surroundings more thoroughly. One of the walls was largely taken up by the discreet sliding door of the closet: behind it were expensive-looking women's clothes, including a number of white blouses and short, dark grey skirts.

_This isn't just a cell, it's a safe house_. Wherever he was, Maya seemed to use this place for whatever her work for the Barton Foundation entailed. Immediately, it meant that there were no clothes he could wear, so he was left sitting in his uniform. He eventually ate the groceries he'd been given, energy bars and some sort of health drink, before lying back on the floor and falling asleep. His detail-oriented memory took over and he dreamed of being shot with electrodes in the chest by Maya over and over.

He jolted awake, more lucid than the day before, still in considerable pain, and with a numb arm from using it as a pillow. This time, the severity of the situation struck him immediately: he'd been captured during active service, if not by an opposition military then by a suspect group. _I'm in captivity, but for how long? What will they do with me? Ransom me to OZ? Ransom me to the Alliance? What about the information I know, have I already become a serious security breech?_

He was still panicking when the door unlocked and opened again, and Maya Barton passed through. Forcing himself into composure, he raised as dangerous an eye as he could muster in his current state and turned to her, clenching his uniform tailcoat in his left hand.

"Whatever you're hoping to accomplish, it won't work," he muttered. She pulled a chain turning on a light that Walker didn't even realize wasn't on.

"Are you hungry?" she asked very quietly.

"No I'm not hungry," he hissed. "To return to my point, it's not going to work. Dekim Barton himself couldn't convince me to turn on OZ and the man practically owned the third Lagrange Point. What do you have that he didn't?"

Maya stared at him and did two things he hadn't seen her do previously: first, she raised one of her eyebrows in a sardonic manner, then she asked him more loudly, "Are you really asking me that question?"

Abruptly, his defiant heart sank into the pit of his stomach. Of all things, what came to mind first was Maxwell, the second C.L.O. Gundam pilot, who'd they captured weeks ago. His defiant smirk, even as he dropped in and out of consciousness.

He wasn't as good as a Gundam pilot.

Maya waited until he'd pressed himself against the wall behind him before, to his surprise, she got down on knees and leaned at him. _Why is every woman I meet taller than I am? Am I that short? _

Very abruptly, she stuck her tongue down his throat, and his mind went completely blank for a moment.

Panic came back first. Maya was a lot stronger than he expected, or he was paralyzed by something or another, and he ineffectually pressed against the wall while she pressed against him. He banged his head against the board behind him, which didn't seem to interrupt Maya for what seemed like an eternity but was actually just a few seconds.

Finally, he did the less stupid thing, grabbed Maya by the forearms and shoved her back, which did work. Walker stared at her, shocked and wiping the lipstick off his mouth with his sleeved.

_What the hell was that? _His revulsion, he hoped, was self-evident to Maya, who had was still perched like a cat, studying him.

It occurred to Walker that he had no really training for something like this, and that Maya was banking on that fact, so she threw herself at him again, this time pressing her chest up against his while keeping him pinned down and breathing heavily. Walker beat his right riding boot against the floor repeatedly, then pushed her off using her face as leverage. It wasn't so much that she was stronger as he was surprised; when that began to wear off, the basic athletic training was enough to do the job. A few buttons popped belonging to both of them, and Maya fell off.

"What...what the hell was _that_?" he asked finally, rubbing his face again with his sleeve.

Maya's expression became abruptly calm, and she fixed her blouse, now missing a few buttons, before standing back up and leaving, as though nothing had happened. Walker was left sitting by himself again for the rest of the day.

In addition to nervous and agitated, he felt unclean. He couldn't shake what had happened. _How am I this surprised? What do I do for a living? I kill people and destroy things to further a political agenda. The primary thing that distinguishes me from an infantryman with an assault rifle is that I use a huge machine to do it instead of a small one. So Maya uses her body to coax information for a political agenda, how is that any worse than what I do? _It wasn't, at least when he analyzed it like that. He still felt tremendously uncomfortable, and sat there with his hands on his legs.

"I shouldn't have left that Mencken in the car," he concluded aloud.

**III**

"Flight Lieutenant Walker is missing?" Dac Bishop finally exclaimed, after an uncomfortable silence. He, Ali Mazuri and Kaneshiro Kanna had arrived on Lieutenant Colonel North's headquarters aboard the OZSS _Callisto _(BC-120), just forward of the Midway Gap.

North gave a somber, displeased-looking nod.

"How did this happen, sir?" Kanna asked finally.

"Whoever grabbed him killed a representative from L5's Long Clan, along with his bodyguard detail," North muttered, propping his head up. "Along with Master Aircrew Leone. Walker was the only one they took, alive presumably."

Kanna put her hand to her forehead and groaned, while Mazuri turned to her. "In the meantime, you're in command."

"Huh?"

"Remember what Walker said? If something happens to him, you're flight leader," he elaborated. "Congratulations," he added.

"Really, Ajay?"

"He's right," North interjected. "As serious an issue as this is, Walker is essentially M.I.A., and possibly captive. Your flight will still need to go out. And we _do _have a spare pilot. The simplest solution is that Kaneshiro takes Walker's command unit, while Bishop uses hers."

Dac blinked. "Really, sir?"

"You can operate a mobile suit, right, Bishop? You _are_ a pilot officer."

"He can, sir, but it's the part where he operates it in space that we're worried about," Mazuri explained as North gave a sigh.

Kanna leaned forward, putting her large arms on North's desk. "Well, sir?"

"Well what?"

"What are you going to do about it? How are we going to mount a rescue?" She paused. "Tell me you're planning to mount a rescue."

"Most of _Barge_'s CAST commandos are already out in the field, but there are a few reserves. The same goes for the Military Commissariat, but frankly, this is a little out of their expertise."

"What has Colonel Une said about this?"

"Nothing, because I haven't told her." North looked at Kanna's widening eyes and turned in his chair to face her. "And I don't intend to tell her. Walker was under my command, and it was my mistake. Her Excellency the Ambassador doesn't need to know, "

"Actually, I agree with the Colonel," Mazuri added as Kanna threw up her arms. "Nothing good would come from involving Lady Une."

"God, this organization…" Kanna muttered, looking away slightly. Mazuri cleared his throat and stepped forward past her.

"Understood, sir. We'll be on standby."

North nodded and dismissed them, adding one more thing. "And Flight Officer Kaneshiro?"

"Sir?" she asked, turning back.

"I don't blame you for your disappointment. This is my fault as much as anyone's, and I promise that I'll find some way to fix it. I just don't know it yet."

After a moment's pause, Kanna saluted. "Sir."

She was not so restrained in the _Callisto_'s pilot quarters, where Mazuri and Dac had to insert themselves between her and a locker door she was about to pulverize with her right fist.

"That son of a…!"

"Deep breaths, Kanna!" Mazuri shouted. "He made a mistake, and seems genuinely remorseful about it. Hell, Walker probably did as well."

A pair of dangerous violet eyes under sharp red bangs glared at him and he jumped back a little. Dac came to his aid. "Getting angry won't help. Well, it would, if we who to even get angry at. The Colonel's right, we need to treat this as an M.I.A., not a kidnaping."

Still making a fist, Kanna muttered something before sitting down, while Mazuri straightened his uniform. "In the meantime, you need to make a decision: will Dac fly, or should we just set your Taurus into mobile doll mode?"

Kanna glanced at a wary-looking Dac. "I don't know, I'll have to think of that too."

"The F/L didn't leave instructions on this?" Mazuri asked rhetorically. "No, of course not. Why would he?"

"He did seem distracted for the last few days," Dac added.

"Or weeks," Mazuri muttered as Kanna rose to her feet again and stormed for the door. "Where are you going?"

"Gonna' call someone on the _Sarajevo_. It's in the area of the colony North and Walker went to."

"Isn't it in the middle of an offensive?"

Kanna gave a nonchalant shrug before ducking through the bulkhead door, as Mazuri and Dac exchanged helpless looks.

**IV**

At the Foundation's massive headquarters at L2-X-18999, Dekim Barton had remained for several hours in dimly-lit strategy room, watching the Noventa Strategic Offensive Operation play out. A tired Marimeia, awake long past her bedtime, was led out by a diligent maid.

The elder Barton's posture remained firm after she left. "And the rest of OZ's fleet?"

"Still holding just as the Ventei Line, sir," a suit-wearing communications operator announced. Except for the civilian dress code, the whole room had a military feel about it. "The main part of Arroway's taskforce is still on course for L1-D-120."

"Keep tracking the dispersed ships," he instructed. "This was not the glorious victory OZ was banking on, Arroway must be trying something."

He sat down. _Though what, I don't know. Yet. _He kept his eyes planted on the primary display, with curved lines indicating the projected movements of different warships when something caught his attention.

"What's that? In E8?"

The appropriate box highlighting a sector of L1 space expanded, marking the location of a colony. "Looks like an Alliance unit broke off from the rest of its group and is running from an OZ patrol."

"What colony is that? Where the Alliance unit is fleeing?"

The operator checked his screen. "L1-E-303, a neutral colony. Should I call the governor general?"

"No, but get Maya on the line," he ordered before pausing. He took a pen from the table and began scribbling on the back of a sheet of paper. "Actually, no, send her a priority communique, highest urgency. It's so difficult to find normal, competent young people nowadays."

At L1-E-303, a flight of four battle-worn violet Pioneer Leos kept in lose formation, in viewing range of the colony's normal space traffic vector and arrival lanes. In the lead OZ-06SMSK, Major Umar bin Khattāb checked his flight computer.

"Datalink established—confirming, no current traffic. They've definitely made us," he said with a touch of humor.

"_Are they that terrified?_" one wingman responded.

"Lucky for us E-303 is neutral—I don't think an OZ-armed colony would be afraid of four Leos anymore. I'll go ahead and broadcast."

"_Affirmative, Scarecrow Actual_."

"This is Major Khattāb of the Republic of Noventa Mobile Suit Troops, broadcasting to Colony L1-E-303. We are not hear to engage in combat operations, we are only in the area because we have withdrawn from a combat zone and are short on fuel. We request docking clearance for refueling support."

No answer. "Again, this is Major Khattāb. I'd like to repeat that we just _withdrew _from a combat zone. The longer we stay here, the more likely that OZ will come after us. Helping us means helping yourself. Please respond."

"_Major Khattāb, this is E-303 space traffic control. I've just sent your request to the governor general's office. If we could have your patience, we'll try and help you as quickly as we can and get your unit on its way,_" a voice carefully responded.

"Thank you," Khattāb responded before closing the channel and sighing. "Nice to see OZ has all of Outer Space quaking in their boots."

Inside one of E-303's bedroom communities, Maya Barton underneath on the breezeway of a humble looking studio apartment complex, reading a sternly-worded communique on the screen of her mobile. She glanced up the stairs once before turning to a small two-seater electric car parked just behind the building and opening the trunk.

The moment Walker had prepared for had come: hearing the tumblers in the door's lock shift, he armed himself with a length of wood tipped with a rusty nail, snapped from the molding on the wall, and hid himself in the closet with the rest of Maya's blouses. For a change his plan was simple: wait until Maya entered again, then strike her into submission with the crude weapon.

She didn't enter. Instead, the door opened very slightly and something metal was thrown in, a shiny blur._ A grenade? _No, it wasn't a grenade. Immediately, Walker dove to the closet floor, dragging one of Maya's blouses with him and wrapping his face in it.

It was no use. Maya herself entered a minute later, after the room had steadily filled with nonlethal tear gas that doubled as an effective incapacitating agent. With her glasses hanging on her blouse, she watched through her UESA Army-surplus gas mask as Walker coughed and heaved uncontrollably. When he lost motor control, he fell out of the closet, knocking the door off its hinges and writhed on the floor. The gas was actually weak enough that Maya didn't feel its inflammatory effects on her exposed skin, but Walker quickly blacked out, coughing, his eyes watering controlling and his mouth drooling between coughs.

As the gas continued to disperse, Maya dragged Walker out of the flat before carefully propping him up on his knees to walk him down the stairs and dropping him on the hood of her car as he twitched and heaved. Immediately, she ran the building wall, filled a plastic bucket with water from a garden faucet, and poured it over the mobile suit pilot lying on the hood.

Walker didn't respond to being soaked, and continued to make more throaty hacking noises as she yanked off her own gas mask and began resuscitating him.

Holding a machine pistol in his left hand, Major Khattāb floated in the low gravity immediately above his violet mobile suit, coming to a stop when his back hit part of the gantry structure. A colonial technician holding a hose spotted him and frowned.

"That's really not necessary, sir."

"Afraid I'll ignite the fuel?"

"Not even a little, sir, but it's still not necessary," he insisted. Khattāb gave a sympathetic nod, flipped the safety selector on the side up before letting it float by the lanyard back to his normal suit.

"Sorry, you can't be too careful," one of Khattāb's wingmen offered.

"We know the war hasn't come here, and we wouldn't want to jeopardize that," Khattāb added.

"I'm glad to hear that," the technician muttered as he connected the hydrogen fuel line to the port on the Leo's back and signaled another technician. The same process was being concluded for the fourth mobile suit of the flight and another one was being hooked up.

"Get many refugees?" another pilot asked.

"Our share, sir," he replied quickly before pausing. "Not many, really. We're a little out of the way."

_Not out of the way enough_, Khattāb thought while smiling at the civilian workers.

A technician holding a clipboard floated towards him. "Major…"

"Khattāb."

"Right, sorry. Could I get you to confirm and sign this?" he asked, giving him the clipboard. On it was a paper invoice for the fuel, acknowledging the transaction.

"Nothing's free in this universe," Khattāb observed.

"No sir. And we'd at least liked to be compensated for our trouble."

"Of course. We're all civilized people here," he replied. The technician looking at him thought the officer was holding back a morbid chuckle as he took back the clipboard.

"We're done here, sir!" one worker announced as the fueling lines were simultaneously detached from the mobile suits. The hangar chief gave Khattāb an anxious look and the later nodded. "I can take a hint. Thank you for your aid, Chief."

The officer stuck out his hand, which the hangar chief warily shook before ordering them to pack up.

One of Khattāb's wingman drifted over to him and spoke in a low voice. "We ought to keep an eye out for any ships leaving while we depart. It'd be a prime moment for an ambush, if they had anything planned."

He nodded back at him. "Good idea."

In a few minutes, they were back inside their mobile suits, hatches closed, and propelling themselves out of the open hangar under their own power. Calmly, Khattāb checked the sensor readings and set his waypoint.

"_Well, that was thankfully painless_," another announced over their shared frequency.

As if on cue, there was a cockpit tone and his left MFD flashed, as part of the area readout was shown on his forward display monitor.

"_Oh, just…damn it all_," the same pilot whined.

"_Scarecrow 1-4, do you see it, heading one-eight-zero_?" the flight leader asked.

"_Confirming, directly behind us. Looks like a small civilian transit ship powering up. I'm online with space traffic control now._"

"_Acknowledged. Scarecrow 1-2, interested in a closer look_?"

"_If I objected, would you listen, Scarecrow Actual_?"

"_I might, Scarecrow 1-2. I very well might._"

In a small two-person courier spacecraft designed only for high-speed intercolony travel, Maya Barton had already thrown the severely dazed Walker, dressed in a civilian normal suit, into the navigator's seat in the tandem cockpit. Even after securing him into his seat, she saw that his arms, bound together over his gloves, floated away from his body. She'd then transmitted her launch clearance, over the continued objection of E-303 Traffic Control, pulled the large canopy closed and ignited her spacecraft liquid-fuel engines.

"_Tail number L2-C14460, I repeat, we order you to abort your takeoff. I'm giving you my assurance, if you'll just wait, we can provide you with normal departure clearance in just a few hours…_"

She felt for the switch for her radio set and flipped it off, cutting off the tinny voice in her helmet. Sitting in the forward pilot's seat, she looked over the simplistic instrumentation and pressed a key on the sole MFD, bringing up an automated flight plan. Concentrating, she reminded herself of the most basic takeoff checklist for to guide a small spacecraft on an exit vector far enough for the autopilot to take over.

Through the overlooking windows above her, she spotted some of the STC staff pounding against the reinforced glass. One swept his hand across his neck angrily and shortly later, the open hangar door began to slide shut hydraulically.

Maya got the hint. She skipped the checklist, bashed her thumb against the uncovered switch that released the ship, which immediately lurched forward in the very low gravity. After making a sharp turn, she barely managed to keep the heading level and straight as it shot out the hangar and into open space.

Sighing deeply, Maya tried to keep herself from shaking as Walker shifted in his seat behind her.

**V**

Khattāb continued waiting patiently in his cockpit as his avionics displayed local communications traffic shooting up just as the small ship left.

"_Scarecrow 1-4 to Scarecrow Actual_."

He leisurely pressed the key. "Go ahead, Scarecrow 1-4."

"_Colony STC is swearing up and down that they ordered that transit ship to stand down, but it launched anyway. Orders?_"

He frowned. "Scarecrow 1-2 made a pretty compelling case for letting it go."

"_It's After Colony 195, getting _into _a colony is the hard part. Any fool can get out of one_," Scarecrow 1-2 added.

"Exactly, it's getting in that…hey, do you see that?" he asked, leaning forward.

Maya's careful playing with the autopilot controls was interrupted by red warning alarms flashing on the MFD and instrumentation lights turning red. Behind her, Walker was fully awake and having seen the navigator's instrumentation in front of him, begun the process of sabotaging the simplistic propulsion system by killing the propellant feed and cutting their acceleration. After a moment of genuine shock, she reached over to stop him, only to have him erratically bat away her arm.

"_What are you going to do, maniac, teargas me again_?" he shouted at her through his helmet as she smacked at him and he tried to push her seat away. He had a realization, looked to his left, and found the emergency canopy release switch bank. Batting at Maya with one arm, he flipped the cover off and pressed the three red switches simultaneously.

A light flashed on the controls and he glanced at his own MFD:

**ATTENTION! EMERGENCY CANOPY RELEASED DISABLED!**

Followed by a particular paragraph and page in the ship's general operating manual. At the same time, Maya undid her own restraints, spun around in her seat, grabbed Walker's helmet with both hands and yanked him forward, bashing his head against the instrumental panel. She heard a loud _crack _over the suit shortwave radio and released him immediately. Dazed, Walker bobbed upward in his seat.

Through her helmet, Maya stared intently at him, trying to see if his own helmet had cracked or any seam had been torn unintentionally, when Walker lurched at her again. This time she had enough warning to stick her left leg to the side of her seat and strike him in the helmet with her normal suit boot. He tried to reach forward, so she did it again, and then a third time, accidentally knocking herself into her yoke and firing several of the ship's small altitude control motors.

"_What the hell's going on in that thing_?"

"This must be some sort of record," Khattāb added while looking at his wristwatch. The small spacecraft was already releasing a trail of gas from poor treatment of its engines even as it spun out. _Now it's too suspicious to ignore. _"Scarecrow 1-3 and 1-4, form a perimeter. Scarecrow 1-2, you're with me."

"_Yes sir_," the unhappy reply came. Two Pioneer Leos descended onto the ship as it slowly grew in distance from the colony. It had stopped lurching erratically and gone into a stable spin.

"_Shuttle tail number L2-C14460, this is the Alliance mobile suit patrol directly ahead of you. Are you in some sort of distress? If your radio is out, halt your spin and wave your ship twice to confirm_," Scarecrow 1-2 asked, with no response. "_Shuttle tail number L2-C11460, respond._"

Scarecrow Actual used the powerful zoom lenses in his primary camera to inspect the canopy. "The navigator looks unconscious." Outside, his mobile suit brandished its beam rifle aggressively. "_L2-C14460, this is the Noventa Space Forces, lower your thrust to zero and be prepared to submit to inspection!_"

Exiting from their mobile suits, Scarecrow 1-1 and Scarecrow 1-2 took their machine pistols and floated over to the small shuttle, which had no choice but to obey. Scarecrow 1-2 took the lead, stopping right up against the shuttle's portside wing.

"_Open the canopy_," he ordered, aiming his weapon. He had no idea if small arms fire could puncture the reinforced polycarbonate enclosure that made up the canopy, but he expected the threat would be enough. The remaining two mobile suits were well within range.

The pilot, apparently thinking the same thing, complied and opened the long canopy before standing up against her seat, arms raised. Despite the bulk of her civilian normal suit, they could clearly make her out as a woman even before she raised her protective visor.

"_Wow, what a beauty_," Khattāb heard muttered over their own frequency. He ignored the comment and gestured with his weapon. "_You armed?_"

She shook her head, before using her foot to push a semi-automatic pistol towards them.

"_See to the navigator,_" he ordered his wingman as he caught the weapon.

"_Affirmative, Major._" Scarecrow 1-2 floated over behind the very still pilot and leaned in towards the navigator. "_Looks pretty beat up, but there's no damage to his normal suit. If anything, he took the beating before getting in it._"

Slowly floating over, Khattāb gave the pilot a glance, causing her to turn away. "_Elaborate_."

Scarecrow 1-2 looked back over his shoulder. "_His face looks pretty red and there's a lot of bruising. He should be fine but…hey, what's that?_"

"_What?_"

"_Something in the footwell. Damn, I always hate this part,_" he explained, ignoring the navigator and turning himself around. He reached into the pilot footwell and pulled out a mostly-zipped shut travel bag. Unzipping it a little, he carefully reached in, wincing, and pulled something out.

"_Major, it's a medal. Looks Eurasian_."

Khattāb used his helmet's digital zoom. "_It's the Order of the Red Banner_," he confirmed. "_Our pretty kidnapper here has a soldier as her navigator, from some force or another_."

Scarecrow 1-2 unzipped the bag further, then pulled out something dark green and maroon colored—upon closer inspection, the unmistakable top half an OZ Mobile Suit Troops officer's uniform tunic, its gold trim catching the light.

Khattāb looked back at the pilot, who kept looking away. "_It seems being delayed here was worth the risk_."


	42. Solitude

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 42 – Solitude**

Still guarding Earth itself, _Barge _remained silent while the Noventa Strategic Offensive Operation continued grinding onwards. From the fortress, observers could see the occasional explosions on the edges of the first Langrage Point's colony clusters, a doomed ship meeting a particularly abrupt demise like a tiny dying star.

On the now-quiet overbridge, Trowa Barton stood in uniform, trying to make out the occasional bursts a few thousand kilometers away. He didn't turn even after Major Bremer clicked his heels and stood at attention when Lieutenant Colonel Une entered.

"How goes the offensive?" she asked commandingly, walking right by Barton.

Bremer gestured for a tactical map to be brought up on the display. "Well enough, ma'am. Despite the loss of the _Over the Rainbow_, First and Second Division are meeting their time objectives, and the Seventh has nearly caught up. Most of the ex-Alliance Space Navy has pulled back well past their lines closer to Midway."

Une gave a contemptuous snort. "They'd better. This is hardly an aggressive strategy, hopping from defensive platform to defensive platform." She raised an eyebrow. "What do you think, Flight Officer Barton?"

He gave it a moment of thought. "Going directly for D-120 might be strategically sound, given OZ's superiority of forces, but given the lack of intelligence on the enemy, it could expose those troops to unnecessary risk."

Bremer brushed his grey-white hair with a hand, visibly annoyed at how the pilot had worded his observation.

"That may be the case," Une conceded coldly, before sitting down atop a console. "We'll just have to let North fight this campaign the way he wants to. See how he likes holding the Armonia Sisters' leash."

She gave him a glance. "What about you? Sad you're not out there in Vayeate?"

"I wouldn't say sad, Colonel."

_For a Colonial, he doesn't seem all that keen about freeing the colonies from the last chains of Alliance rule. _Une watched him, but didn't remark on it further.

**II**

Almost two dozen infiltrators from OZ's Military Commissariat had reached L1-D-120 before dawn of 12 September. The lack of an organized popular resistance in the Republic of Noventa's capital meant that they planned to operate in seclusion and without assistance.

Eva Cebotari, still in civilian dress, drifted through the colony's superstructure until emerging not far from the outer neighborhoods of the Military Quarter. All passages into the superstructure were guarded, at least in theory, by the colony's internal security troops, the _Gendarmerie_.

Even in the dead of night and outside the Military Quarter, L1-D-120's gendarmerie was out in full force: soldiers in Alliance Army infantry uniforms worn under bright orange traffic vests and other police attire, moving in and out of the light. One of them saw Eve pass by the lines of pedestrian traffic by out of the corner of his eye and blew on his whistle hanging by a lanyard.

"Miss, over here please!" he asked commandingly, pointing his flashlight at her. She obliged, presenting her credentials.

The sentry looked at them. "Not from here, are you?"

"Is it that obvious?" she asked apathetically.

After flipping through the pages, he closed the book and handed it back to her. "Continue through, don't hold up traffic.

"Yes _sir_."

Deep in the Military Quarter, along the avenue that separate it from Capitol Hill, the neighborhood home to most of D-120's governmental buildings, a military convoy pulled up to the Navy Command Headquarters building, its vehicles reflected in the building's glass façade. Between two lines of sailors in black uniforms, Counter Admiral Arroway exited he limousine followed by her muscular XO and walked up to a pair of sliding glass doors that bore insignia of the United Earth Sphere Alliance etched into them by laser.

A light-skinned, clean-cut captain with shoulder patches reading '101st Intelligence Squadron' was waiting on the other side, and gave a short yawn before saluting. Arroway smirked at him. "You again. Capture another Taurus, have you?"

"No ma'am, though I did want to inform you that the unit we did capture is now operational," he explained, not missing a step.

"You better not have come here just to tell me that," she warned. "I'm not wasting time in this office."

"No, ma'am, it's just…something else has come up. Major Khattāb has returned from his force recon…"

"And?" she demanded sharply.

Captain Fielding looked around quickly and leaned towards the long-haired admiral, whispering something to her that caused much of the harsh annoyance to leave her face.

Far from the Military Quarter, at D-120's military spaceport, a ten-man security detail stopped in front of four violet OZ-06SMS 'Space Leos' that had just set down. In between them was a small courier ship that they had towed with them.

"A little excessive," Major Khattāb uttered, removing his helmet. From the detail, one male soldier and one female soldier emerged, each with a handheld weapons scanner. They both ran them over two of the newcomers, Oswald Walker and Maya Barton, as they discarded their normal suits before the physically frisking them. Walker stood in his sweat-stained uniform blouse, trousers and socks and Maya in her fashionable black miniskirt.

While Maya twitched nervously from contact from the other woman, Khattāb got a quick briefing from a junior officer.

"He got back to us quickly."

"Yes sir."

"And her 'friend'?"

"He wanted him too, but then again, I suspect Mr. Dekim Barton wants a lot of things," the officer explained mischievously. Khattāb laughed and turned to their two captives.

"It appears this lovely young woman will be leaving our custody," he said gregariously. "You'll be handed over to the Barton Foundation once they arrived."

Walker raised an eyebrow briefly before turning away again.

"The same cannot be said about you…Sir Oswald Walker, Baronet of the Romefeller Foundation and Flight Lieutenant of the OZ Space Mobile Suit Troops," he said, looking at the procured military ID he held in his hands. "Think of that as a good thing."

Walker turned away without responding. Still in a good mood, Khattāb kept flipping through the book.

"Our new friends at Barton Security Services wanted you too, but they need to be reminded of their place in the world," he said, flashing a smile at Scarecrow 1-2, who was holding his helmet in his hands when his headset beeped. He cupped one of his ears and Khattāb continued.

"Ever been a P.O.W. before?"

Walker finally spoke. "No, Major."

"Neither have I. This'll be a learning experience for both of us," he said, giving him a firm pat on the back at his passed by. Walker convulsed and twitched sharply, immediately putting both hands on his chest.

Khattāb immediately turned back. "Hey, are you all right?"

He inhaled sharply and deliberately through his mouth, still holding his chest.

"Call a medic!" the major ordered.

"Already done, sir. Captain Soletta's on her way with one, the OZ pilot will be handled over to her."

"What?" Khattāb asked, putting a hand on Walker's shoulder before the later pushed it away, his breathing starting to normalize. "My God, woman, how many times did you Taser the man?"

Barton awkwardly rolled her eyes away remaining silent.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Walker insisted angrily, keeping one hand pressed against his chest and the other against his left knee.

"Sir, you're also needed back at Captain Fielding's unit. Urgent priority."

Heaving a sigh, Khattāb picked his helmet back up and gave Walker one more look. "We'll meet again, you have my word."

"Looking forward to it," Walker spat out with more sarcasm than he was used to before pressing a hand against his chest. An Alliance officer touched him and he shoved her away angrily.

**III**

While the Pentagon building in Washington was the historic home to UESANACOM—the Alliance North American Command Center—it was abandoned following a successful attack years earlier by the Colony Liberation Organization before being turned into a military museum specializing in the former-United States. UESANACOM was subsequently moved to the much more secure Cheyenne Mountain Complex, already home to the central office of the UESA Terrestrial Missile Forces, where it surrendered to OZ after cyber-warfare wrestled control of its nuclear arsenal away from him and blockaded the area. The hardened facility had not been maintained at full preparedness, and fell to a siege with minimal bloodshed.

Deep within the bunker, in a large furnished room that had once served as the command center for the ancient NORAD military organization, OZ junior officers sat behind computer workstations wearing headsets while a lieutenant colonel stood next to one of the Order's dark blue flags hanging in a corner.

"Satellite reconnaissance uplinks over Caribbean airspace restored," an officer announced, not looking up from her station.

"Good, reestablish our link with the Caribbean Air Army's HQ server," the commanding officer announced. "With this offensive in Outer Space taking our attention, if I were an Alliance holdout, I'd wait till now to try something," he muttered.

He checked his wristwatch before glancing back at the main screen. "Who here had the Haitian Front would outlast the Utahan Campaign?"

Not looking up, another officer raised his hand from behind his desk.

"Well, I suppose I owe you a paid day off," the commanding officer admitted.

The officer gave a chuckle before being cut off by an alarm tone sounding.

"What was that?"

"Just a battlefield alert, sir, bringing it up now," an officer announced, his display immediately changing to the satellite view of a naval taskforce, with a ship in the center trailing smoke. "OZS _Devonshire _just took a direct hit from an anti-shipping cruise missile, damage reports coming in. Escort ships standing on alert."

"Bring them up on my screen, and get His Excellency's headquarters on the line. Colonel Khushrenada ask to be personally informed every time a mobile suit carrier ship was damaged in combat."

"Yes sir!

At the in-room communications console, the screen flashed black and three lines appeared.

**OZ 01**

**SANTIAGO**

**SOUND ONLY**

Followed by no response.

"Your Excellency? Colonel Khushrenada, this is the North American Command Center at Cheyenne Mountain, can you hear us?"

"_I can hear you fine, sir, but I'm sorry, His Excellency isn't here right now_."

"I'm sorry, where is he then?" he demanded.

To his displeasure, Treize Khushrenada was standing in front of four lines of young men and women in an empty hangar at Antonio Marceo AFB. They were wearing various uniforms, but were not military personnel, but models intended to stand in for officers, soldiers and sailors from the multiple branches of both Earth and Space Forces. Next to him Treize, looking much less displeased, was Squadron Commander Nathaniel. Past him was a tall, Caucasian civilian with neatly combed white hair and glasses in an elegant suit.

"Please give us your honest opinion, Your Excellency," Nathaniel beseeched him.

"That's what we're here for, after all," the civilian added.

Treize frowned a little. "I don't really care for the color," he explained. "What color is this?"

The civilian opened his mouth when Nathaniel cut him off. "Federal blue, I think it's called."

"Is there a reason we can't stay with hunter green?" Except for the naval officers in their white summer uniforms, almost all of the officers wore coats with some variation of dark blue on them.

"The Foundation asks that you give it some thought. The Alliance, after all, had all their daily uniforms in the same olive drab. Green, red, and blue like yours—the Foundation thought it was too showy for military dress."

"Not to mention there's only one colonel in OZ," the civilian added in a catty tone.

"Mr. Bailey, you're here in your role as fashion consultant. Please leave military matters to the professionals," Nathaniel chided him. This got a discreet eye-roll from Treize and a not-so-discreet eye-roll from Bailey.

"But why federal blue?'

"It's the background color on OZ's own flag, sir," he said, gesturing at a large banner hanging from the hangar wall.

"Of course. And you have my opinion on the matter."

"I don't think he likes it," Bailey offered in a sarcastic tone. Nathaniel shot him another glance, but he continued. "Sir, Your Excellency, Colonel Treize, are there _any_ changes you'd like to see to the current uniforms?"

Treize actually glanced down briefly at his own uniform, cape draped over one shoulder, before looking back up. "I can't think of any."

Bailey sighed and put a hand to his cheek. "Well, if _I _may…your troops are very bold to stay this committed to the Napoleonic style, but have you ever considered that there may be a reason that keeping this style of dress, in the current political climate, might be considered…_arrogant_?"

Treize stared at Bailey for a few seconds before cracking a smile.

"_Your Excellency! There's a call for you from Cheyenne Mountain, sir!_"

"Thank Goodness," he said aloud. "We'll have to finish this some other time. I am very sorry for making you come all the way here to Cuba," he explained before strolling right past the two of them, cape billowing in the breeze.

**IV**

The pilots of the 98th Corsican Legion of Honor Battalion used a small office building at the Voyens Commune in South Jutland as both their barracks and their office, not far from a nearby airfield that served both mobile suits and transport aircraft.

Standing in front of a large monitor, Flight Lieutenant Harris blew his nose noisily and continued speaking. "And then with the withdrawal of those squadrons, the whole of the Ninety-Eighth Division will be formally removed from the Sanc Kingdom Demilitarized Zone," he said while pointing at the area in the center of the display. "The Sanc Royal Police shouldn't have anything larger than a four-wheel drive car, which'll be the closest thing to military hardware in the kingdom since the New Port City garrison was dismantled."

Next to him, Flight Officer Disraeli nodded. "Where do you think all those beam cannons went, sir?"

"To a recycling plant? No, I doubt that. They've probably been moved to Luxembourg, seems like everything's being amassed here nowadays." Harris put a hand on his hip. "Disraeli, I'm putting you in charge of the surviving half of Squadron 4, that'll be kept in Kiel. Three missile frigates are being kept there as well."

"Excuse me, sir?" Disraeli asked, confused. This sounded like an informal promotion, if an unexpected one.

"You'll be in command of the mobile suit troops closest to the Sanc Kingdom," he elaborated before shaking his head. "Yes, I don't understand it either. The General Staff has some weird fixation on Sanc, something to do with history obviously. Part of the Baltic Sea Squadron was supposed to be the show of force, but apparently now they want mobile suits convenient."

He changed the screen to a map solely of Funen Island, which encompassed all territory of the small kingdom. "All this fuss, and they won't just sign a damn treaty to renege the D.M.Z. order and put a company in a local airfield. All this pretending to not be in Sanc or Denmark or wherever, it's becoming a jurisdictional pain-in-my-ass."

He looked up and pointed a finger. "But seriously, you're not to enter the D.M.Z., not even to pursue Alliance forces. Nothing short of a direct order from Luxembourg."

"Yes sir," Disraeli said stiffly as Harris patted him on the shoulder.

"It's your problem as well. Don't worry, if someone has to save the damsel-in-distress of post-Alliance Scandinavia, OZ will go back on a stupidly political executive order like this. Just try not to let that hermit princesses Relena Peacecraft order you around."

Disraeli stood at attention and watched him leave. "Sir, I'll remember that, sir!"

**IV**

In his stained, now unbuttoned clothes, Walker was made to wait in a sterile-looking processing center room somewhere in the Military Quarter, the walls completely bare and the room empty except for a metal chair for him to sit on. His wrists were still bound behind his back in cuffs.

He wasn't waiting long; the heavy door to the side opened and two people entered: a very pale man with glasses and a doctor's white coat over a suit and tie, and a woman with a darker complexion, wearing an open hooded jacket over a stretched sweater and large sunglasses. She held a grey pack in her hands, though under closer inspection, Walker could see that it was a one-piece industrial jumpsuit in light grey, folded into a neat bundle.

"Good news, Mr. Walker, your heart's fine. One of the finest transplants I've ever seen, in fact," the doctor announced immediately, walking right up to him with a clipboard in hand.

Walker stared at him bleakly.

"Right, I forget that treating prisoners-of-war is…a little different," he muttered. "People usually are grateful when I tell them they're not dying of heart failure. In fact, I…"

The younger woman, around Walker's age, cut him off. "How are you feeling?" she asked commandingly, removing her sunglasses and reaching out at him. He backed away but didn't stop her from grabbing his bony chin.

"F-Fine," he said finally. He was still uncomfortable from what had happened with Maya Barton.

"Open your mouth," she commanded.

Instinctively he did so and stuck out his tongue. The doctor watched as she peered into his mouth briefly, then released his chin only to drag up one of his eyelids, then the other.

"You look fine. The teargas's effect has worn off."

"Right, I was going to explain that," the doctor muttered, as the woman tossed the bundle of clothes at him, then gestured at the door. An enlisted man in an olive uniform came through and immediately undid his cuffs. He felt his wrists, then looked apprehensively at the jumpsuit while the woman replaced her sunglasses.

"Major Khattāb'll contact you, hold onto him until then."

"I thought I was _your _responsibility," Walker muttered.

"I'm sorry, what? Damn it, Captain, I'm a doctor, not a jailhouse warden."

"Be both," she ordered as she left her room. "It won't be long."

She wasn't wrong. Walker watched the doctor constantly check his own wristwatch as the two stood in the room, the empty chair between them. In over an hour, another enlisted man appeared and they shuffled off into another military car, identical to the one that had transported him to the hospital earlier.

"So much for a good night's sleep. How are you enjoying your first day as a prisoner-of-war?"

"I didn't expect there to be this much shuffling."

"Well, you are the only one," the doctor muttered.

The car took them through a security perimeter into what Walker deduced must have been D-120's Military Quarter, where the architecture took on a distinctly Prussian, classically-baroque flavor, just as in Marius City on the moon. There were enough Alliance flags, uniforms and military vehicles to suggest the whole of the Revolutions had not changed anything, at least cosmetically, in D-120.

"Welcome to Old Town," the doctor muttered. "I think this is where we part ways. Try not to die, you're quite valuable."

Wearing an Alliance engineering services one-piece work suit, as he had in the past, Walker followed a master sergeant who led him into a small office building. At the office at the end of the hall, past a huge portrait of Field Marshal Noventa holding one of his gloves in a clenched hand, was an office with Major Khattāb's full name on it in English. Inside, the major had traded his normal suit for a clean, olive service uniform with a shiny belt buckle. At an adjacent desk, a military secretary in a junior officer's uniform was waiting.

The NCO led him in, but didn't stay.

"You again," Walker whispered.

Khattāb gave a nod, walking over to him. "I told you we'd meet again. But we haven't been formally introduced, have we."

He stuck out his hand, a big smile on his face. "Umar bin Khattāb."

Walker stared at the unusually friendly older officer and his large, cheerful eyes, then very slowly took his hand. "Walker," he grumbled finally.

Khattāb shook his hand. "I'll bet you're wondering what happened to Captain Soletta," he explained, gesturing at him to sit one of the comfortable chairs to the front of the room. With some reluctance, Walker did, while Khattāb sat down opposite to him, resting his arms on his knees.

"I very much value openness," he explained gregariously. "The Defense Minister, Admiral Arroway, has put you in Captain Soletta's charge while her unit awaits refitting. But I thought I would help out an old friend."

Walker said nothing, and Khattāb gestured at the secretary, who stood up and walked over to a tea set against the wall. "Anyway, if I can tell you a little about myself. I'm operational commander of the 1st Separate Pioneer Mobile Suit Battalion of Republic of Noventa's Space Mobile Suit Troops. I'm actually from Earth, but I was first assigned to Outer Space almost ten years ago."

Walker listened to the secretary stirring tea with a spoon behind him. "I know that," he lied.

"Really? That's good."

The two men sat in silence, even after the secretary gave them each a teacup.

"Who are you, Lieutenant?"

"Excuse me?"

Khattāb gave another friendly smile before taking a sip from his cup. "You tell me something about yourself, Walker. I'm curious."

"Why?"

"Lieutenant, you may be too young to know this, but this is how people interact. They ask each other polite questions, in order to better come to an _un-der-stand-ing_," he said with emphasis on each syllable.

Walker narrowed his eyes. "My father was an Alliance sergeant major at UESANACOM in Washington. He was killed by the Colony Liberation Organization."

His face lit up rather inappropriately. "Really? I mean, I'm sorry to hear that, of course. But we have something in common. My mother was an army officer at Tashkent, for the Central Asian Military District." He leaned back in his chair. "My name, though, that's from my father. He was an Emirate business tycoon, in the power generation industry."

"I see, sir."

"The 'sir' is not necessary, but I won't stop you." Khattāb paused for a moment. "Maybe there's one thing you can answer for me."

"What is that, _sir_?" he asked.

"Your rank of flight lieutenant, we don't have such a rank in the Alliance, of course. It's an officer second grade rank, equivalent to a captain, I've been told."

Walker said nothing.

"Should I address you as captain or lieutenant?"

"Flight lieutenant. _Never _shortened to just lieutenant," Walker explained stiffly. _Even though it happens anyway, _he thought.

"I'll never remember that," Khattāb added whimsically. "I'll go with 'Lieutenant', it seems closer."

Walker didn't respond, when the major's wristwatch beeped twice and he gave a polite yawn. "Excuse me," he told him, taking a small digital assistant out of his pocket and standing it, upright, on his desk before hitting the one visible button on it. He got out from behind his desk, and stood in the corner of his office before turning in what seemed a very deliberate direction.

The digital assistant played a tone followed by somber music and tinny chanting, just barely clear enough for Walker to realize it sounded familiar. They he recognized it: Arabic.

"That's the _Fajr_," he said, referencing the prayer at dawn.

Khattāb got down on his knees, an awkward task in tall leather riding boots, and closed his eyes. "Very good, Lieutenant. I'm surprised you'd know that."

"I was in the Middle Eastern Air Army. Before the Revolutions."

Khattāb sat still before bending himself slightly, far from a full prostration. "At my father's behest, I'm trying to become more religious. To be honest, I'm no good with the posture, but I do make a point of facing Earth."

The digital assistant continued for a bit longer before the recording ended, and Khattāb rose from the hardwood floor and looked at Walker.

"The M.E.A.A., you say?"

"Yes."

He smiled. "I suppose, at one time, we were all Alliance soldiers, weren't we?"

"We were all atheists too, but then someone told us about God," Walker fired back.

Khattāb found this very clever and nodded. "I think we're going to be good friends, Lieutenant."

"It's almost dawn. I would like to have breakfast." He paused. "Preferably wherever I'm going to be held."

"Of course, of course. I won't take more of your time. You've got a few more people to speak to this morning."

Walker turned to leave, while Khattāb sat back down at his desk. As he opened the door, he heard him call out to him. "Oh, and _as-salamu alaykum_, Lieutenant," he told him cheerfully.

**V**

Lieutenant Colonel North was still aboard the OZSS _Callisto,_ albeit in a military normal suit rather than his uniform, staring at five different monitors arrayed around him. All but the smallest showed pictures of documents, while it displayed the face of the officer he was teleconferencing with.

"As much I hate to admit it, your comrades in the Military Commissariat left some very good records on this matter in case they weren't available personally," North muttered, flipping through sheets on one of the screens.

On the screen, Sieben Hopkins, wearing a loose-fitting Space Forces physical training uniform, twitched slightly. "_Yes sir._"

"Bet you're glad not to be out there with them," North added.

"_I am, sir_."

North glanced at the small display. "Are you sure you should be helping me? You're still technically laid up for stress-related fatigue, I heard."

"_It's fine, sir_," Hopkins insisted quickly. North gave an unconcerned shrug.

"So far, all the P.O.W.s taken by the ex-Alliance can be divided into two groups: colonial militia on the frontier, and Space Mobile Suit Troops captured during combat. They've even isolated them to three troop transports and a holding facility in an Area 'D' colony not far from D-120, though obviously they're a very small minority in all those locations."

North gave a sigh. "Wherever they take Walker, he's going to be a pain in the ass to find and rescue."

On the other end of the transmission, Hopkins was sitting in an 'outdoor' tennis court in Luna's Copernicus City, home to a military convalescence and wellness center. Not far from the table he occupied, two other officers were engaged in a heated match, leaping about in the low gravity.

Hopkins gave an erratic twitch. "By the way, Colonel, there hasn't been any news about Millardo Peacecraft, has there?"

"_You know I can't share that with you, Hopkins. Doctor's orders._"

"Yes sir," Hopkins muttered. "Let me know if I can be of any service, Colonel."

"_Thank you, Hopkins_," North replied before cutting the transmission on Hopkin's mobile, propped up against a water bottle on the sitting table. Remaining still for another moment, he gave an annoyed grunt before snatching the newspaper within arm's reach and unfolding it. The headline for _The Marius City Times _was the media revelation of Millardo Peacecraft's meeting with Gwinter Septim III.

He began rapping his fingers against the table. _I'm surprised the Noventans even have a functioning government, as much as they hate one another. When will Space Forces realize that Millardo Peacecraft, not Gwinter Septim, is the most dangerous man in Outer Space?_

High above the surface of Luna, on the edges of the first Lagrangian point, the OZSS _Asiana _(CVA-45) sat in orbit, drifting among its small picket fleet of frigates and light destroyers. With the loss of the _Over the Rainbow_, the _Asiana _was by far the largest carrier in the OZ Space Navy. The sister ship to the EASFS _Africana_, its hangars were packed to with the black-and-red mobile suits of the entire First Recon Battalion, seventy-two machines strong.

Squadron Commander Ogasawara, in her full in-formation service uniform, floated across the traffic control deck overlooking the central hangar, clutching her white cape and hunter green visor cap in her left hand. At the other end of the room, Flight Officers Syed Khan and Tsujimoto spotted her and awkwardly saluted, also in full uniform. Wearing their uniforms in-formation seemed to compel them to do so.

"How's it look?"

"The entire unit's ready to deploy. We'll actually take longer to launch, seeing how we'll need to get into our normal suits first," Syed Khan explained, gesturing out the window. Tsujimoto nodded in agreement.

"It's weird, I agree," Ogasawara muttered uncomfortably. "Let's get it over with. Who're we meeting?"

"Colonel Armonia," Tsujimoto answered. "Her sister gave the order."

"Of course, what did I expect?" she mumbled, touching her forehead with a white gloved hand. "Indira, have you seen Carlos?"

"He's on the floor talking with the other wing leaders. Said he was exempt, the Sun Queen only wanted to see the three of us."

"Right, whatever. Come on Nabiki."

The found the main auditorium aboard the _Asiana _empty and only dimly lit. They walked in carefully when a shadowy figure shifted: Lieutenant Colonel Armonia, wearing her uniquely-colored normal suit, dark grey with polished insignia.

"Ma'am!"

"Take a line please," she asked, and the three stood equidistant at a line near the middle of the auditorium. From behind the colonel, Luna Armonia, in her service uniform, stepped into a beam of dim light.

Emi took a careful look at her comrades on either side. "My Lady, can I ask what this's about?"

She seemed to smile and inched into the dim light herself. "I apologize, but the carrier is diverting power from unused rooms towards essential functions. Let get to the point: the extraterrestrial distribution of _La Alba Nero _is going to feature a photo spread on all the pilots in First Recon. Including you three lovely ladies and Mr. Motta," Lady Soris explained smoothly.

"Great," Emi muttered under her breath.

"I think it's cool," Syed Khan countered. "So what was the issue, ma'am?"

"All the pilots get portrait shots, but only one of you will get a full-body instead," Luna said quickly before stepping out of the light and into the shadows quickly.

"Wait, only one of us?" Nabiki asked.

"Only enough space for two, and the other's going to a male officer," Luna replied, reappearing and floating over to them. "So it's been decided it'll be Ogasawara."

"What?" Nabiki and Syed Khan asked, almost simultaneously, causing Emi to nearly jump.

"Why Emi?" Syed Khan asked.

"Well, I am the ranking officer," she replied with a nervous laugh.

"No, that's not it," Soris sang mischievously. Still floating, Luna came to a gentle halt in front of Emi, extending one of her legs.

"Squadron Commander, would you please push your cape back?"

Her eyes widening a little, Emi pushed her white leather cape back so it floated behind her. Luna peered at her intently, her eyes narrowing as she seemed to study the polished belt buckle on her waist, the fine stitching on her formfitting new wool uniform, her curves of her muscular back and her proud chest. Emi remained very still as the younger woman floated around her slowly, until she finally kicked herself back with her left leg.

"Squadron Commander Ogasawara has the best body of you three, so she'll get the full-body photograph in the spread," Luna stated matter-of-factly. "The whole point of the spread, of the magazine out here, is to lure young men and women into joining OZ. Ergo, Ogasawara Emi will make the best bait."

By the time Emi turned to face them rigidly, Syed Khan and Nabiki were already giving parts of her evil, unwavering stares. "What?"

"Nothing, ma'am!"

"_Hai_, nothing!"

Lady Soris seemed pleased and gestured at them with her helmet. "Then the matter's settled. Remain on standby with the rest of First Recon. If you make it through Operation 'Citadel' unharmed, we'll have you in the magazine's victory issue."

**VI**

After a meager military breakfast, Walker was shuffled to another building in the Military Quarter, this one less lavish and adjacent to a barracks. His security detail, never leaving his side and never telling where he'd go next, led him to a dark wooden door with a metal plaque at eye level.

**Captain Alexander C. Fielding  
>101<strong>**st**** Intelligence Squadron, UESA Space Forces**

He looked around the little office. Captain Fielding had an enormous amount of hardback books, some of them very old-looking, with names like 'Rand Corporation' and 'Foreign Policy Research Institute' printed on the spines. A few he recognized as being printed by the Romefeller, Yuy, and Barton Foundations. On the one part of the wall not taken up by shelf space hung an oil painting depicting two differently-dressed 20th Century fighting men standing, hands clasped and arms around each other, in front of their respective flags, titled 'Encounter at the Elbe'.

_So this is what I'm missing out on by not having a permanent office, _Walker thought.

Fielding himself was a fairly unimpressive, clean shaven officer, who matched an unremarkable appearance with a well-kept uniform and good posture. Almost instinctively, he put his visor cap on as he rose from his desk, and outstretched his hand. With some reluctance, Walker shook it.

"So, Flight Lieutenant, how are you enjoying your first day as a prisoner-of-war?"

"It's a lot of attention," Walker responded quietly, taking back his hand.

Fielding nodded. "That's what we expected. You'll need to forgive the troops, we all need a break—we've done nothing but defense preparations for weeks now. The monotony gets to you eventually."

Walker kept absorbing his surroundings. "Are you some sort of historian?"

"Purely an amateur interest," he explained. "I cling to a number of fond memories of the history colloquiums I took back in Columbia University, on Earth."

"You're a North American?" he asked, scanning the book spines.

Fielding nodded. "As are you, I believe."

Walker peered at him out of the corner of his eye. "Other side of the river."

"Yes, I know. My brother was captured during the Ontarian Campaign, a few months ago, according to the American Red Cross." He gestured at the chair but remained standing behind his desk. "Please."

Walker took a seat.

"While you're in our custody, we hope you'll behave reasonably and cooperate with us, as we will with you," he explained dutifully.

"I very seriously doubt that."

Fielding frowned. "I thought you'd say that. The thought had occurred to you that, in the event of OZ's invasion of this colony, you may be exposed to danger as well." He paused. "Though not from us."

"I'm willing to risk that."

"I see."

Outside Fielding's office, Walker could hear the sound of a horn blaring and soldiers shouting. Something was obstructing a convoy near the building, probably errant traffic.

Captain Fielding leaned across his desk a little. "I'm sure you've noticed how you seem to be alone at the moment, Flight Lieutenant."

"Yes, I have."

"In OZ's war in the colonies, both sides have taken very few P.O.W.s, really a fraction of the number we've seen on Earth," he explained in a soft, even tone. "General procedure is to allow either side to recover their own survivors from the battlefield—and survivors are rare in large-scale extraterrestrial combat. That aside, we don't entertain any delusions: OZ has several times the number of prisoners-of-war that we have."

"Including your own colleagues," he said, glancing at Fielding's sleeve patch.

"Yes, including my colleagues. _You _are the lone prisoner-of-war taken recently in the region of space around L1-D-120. Other captured officers are being held in other colonies or aboard the Space Navy, in what I assure you are conditions prescribed by international law."

"I would hope that's the case," Walker mumbled.

Fielding scratched the side of his head briefly. "Did you know, the Great Pacific War in the Twentieth Century, the mortality rate for Caucasian prisoners taken by the Japanese Empire was over twenty five percent? It was even higher for Chinese prisoners. Even with the horrific conditions, I've read that as many as one in three prisoners-of-war who perished were killed, inadvertently, by friendly fire while being transported by ship."

Walker tilted his head. "I heard the German Empire killed half the prisoners it took during its invasion of the Soviet Union, but I don't know the details. I'm not very well read on that particular topic," he admitted.

Fielding nodded. "You're right, about three-and-a-half million men," he said, his voice severe. "The Soviet Union treated their Germans better, but of the quarter-million Polish soldiers in their custody, two-thirds never came back."

"Wars between nations," Walker offered, his voice devoid of irony.

"I bet you wish you were better read on this topic now," Fielding suggested, his voice unamused. "Don't underestimate the importance of being well-informed."

"With due respect, Captain, I am a certified mobile suit engineer," Walker countered.

Fielding smiled abruptly, catching Walker off guard. "That's correct, and that's something we're keeping in mind. I think we'll be able to convince you to behaving _productively _and putting your expertise to good use without behaving in any way improper."

Walker gave a snort that he would later regret. "Sure, good luck."

"In any case, we live in a more civilized age. The total casualties of the war OZ has started anywhere near those numbers, fortunately, and we're not the kind to severe the heads of our prisoners with swords."

The digital notebook on Fielding's desk sounded an alarm causing him some annoyance as he looked at it. "I'm afraid this demands my attention. Thank you for your time, Flight Lieutenant. I just wanted to clear the air between you and ourselves."

"Clear the air?"

"Well, this war may be a long one, but it won't last forever. Barring some unfortunate event on this colony, you can expect to be returned home eventually." He stuck out his hand. "We'll speak again soon, I think."

Walker reluctantly took it. "Thank you, Captain."

Fielding held his hand. "With that understanding, I hope you'll avoid spreading any unnecessary rumors."

"Excuse me?"

He kept talking while one of the men from the security detail pushed him out of this office. "This sort of environment is perfect for myths. Twenty thousand American prisoners liberated from detention camps are instead lost in Eurasia thanks to a misread telegram. Long term German forced-labor being conflated with chattel slavery in the British Isles. Part of my job is deterring this sort of thing." He released Walker's hand, as if nothing unusual had happened. "Your cooperation would be appreciated, and you time with us _will _be well-spent."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_Mr. Bailey is a not-so-subtle reference to the character Baileywick from the children's TV show, _Sofia the First. _Or more accurately, Baileywick's voice actor. Less recently, Fielding's painting refers to the famed encounter on the German Elbe River of victorious American and Soviet forces near the end of the Second World War, often connected with the unofficial 'Elbe Day' celebration. _

_A big part of this chapter, unsurprisingly, is the juxtaposition of work: Walker's sitting in prison, Emi pressed into modeling (and another homage, this one to one of Jun Honoo's early roles in the manga _Mazinger Angels_, and Treize must review uniforms. The last is foreshadowing: when OZ splits in have between the Romefeller Foundation and Treize's loyalists, abruptly most of the OZ troops and officers we see in subsequent episodes are wearing dark blue, rather than dark green, uniforms. We even see a few setting fire to stacks of dark green uniforms in a European locale. Part of this was practical on Sunrise's part: just like Leo mobile suits almost always get distinct paint schemes when engaging eachother, opposing factions OZ personnel had to be given distinct uniforms due to the lack of variation in their faces, but it does leave some interesting venues of examination. Was OZ planning to replace their uniforms? Does this correspond with the more 'Alliance' looking uniforms we see OZ's Colonial troops, like Hilde, wearing? Uniform transitions in armed forces tend to be incremental. Maybe these changes, considered normal and practical, became politicized in the split of OZ between Treize and Duke Dermail, and Earth and Space. _


	43. Caardus, Epidendrum and Chrysanthemum

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 43 – Caardus, Epidendrum and Chrysanthemum**

_13 September, AC 195, L1-D-120 _

The staff sergeant in charge of the security detail escorting Oswald Walker pushed him into the top level of the dormitories adjacent to a factor complex he hadn't gotten a good look at. The top floor looked unused, with the open doors in the main hall revealing the bedrooms had been packed with wartime supplies: preserved food, drinking water, medicine and so forth.

The staff sergeant directed him to the last room in the hall, whose door was closed.

"You'll be staying here."

"Looks comfortable," Walker goaded the best he could, which was still quite poor.

He smirked and opened the door, which was only held back by a fairly conventional looking lock. Walker entered to see what he expected was very typical lodging for a P.O.W.: an old mattress on a metal frame, hastily installed military-use toilet with a sink.

"So I'm alone in here?"

This got a laugh from the staff sergeant. "You have no idea."

"Excuse me?"

The muscular NCO forced Walker, still in his dull work suit, to sit down on the mattress before reaching into a breast pocket of his uniform and pulling out a small index card with some handwriting on it. "Because of security concerns, Captain Walker, we're keeping you in emergency isolation for the time being," he explained, clearing referencing the card.

"_Solitary confinement?_" he screeched back.

He gave Walker a condescending look. "Because of wartime obligations, our security options for holding a high-value prisoner are limited."

"This is illegal!" Walker blurted. "You can't just _throw_ me into solitary confinement! I've done nothing wrong, I haven't even had the time to!"

"Says who, sir?"

"Says Articles 9 and 10 of the Geneva Convention, _Staff Sergeant_," Walker barked back.

He looked up from the index card. "Right, that's a very good point, Captain. How about I get Captain Fielding on the line?"

Very quickly—too quickly, really—Walker found himself speaking to Fielding on the handset from a nearby wall-mounted telephone.

"_I'm afraid those are your conditions, and you will probably have to be confined there for twenty-three hours a day_."

"This is inhumane, Fielding!" Walker shouted back angrily. "Wasn't that the whole point of our earlier conversation?"

"_You're very correct, Flight Lieutenant. How about we come to an arrangement: rather than being confined to your quarters for almost the entire day, you will be allowed travel freely, within reason, within our own labor structure._" There was a pause. "_As covered by Articles 27 to 34 in the Geneva Convention. I'm certain we can find you work appropriate to your skills and physical state_."

This only infuriated Walker. "Get bent, Fielding!" he snapped before throwing the handset against the outside wall before he threw himself into the old mattress.

On the other end of the line, Fielding, still at his desk, listened to the _crack _of a handset bouncing against a wall and then a dial tone, before hanging up. He glanced at the paper copy of the Geneva Convention, printed on Alliance military stationary, sitting in front of him.

Nearby, Captain Soletta, also in uniform, raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Do you think this will work?"

Fielding looked up at her. "According to records from the Army Medical service, within fifty days, more than half of prisoners Walker's age undergoing solitary confinement like this were diagnosed with mental health problems. I seriously doubt it'll take fifty days, though. Walker might be immune to seduction from the likes of Maya Barton, but I doubt he's resistant to the effects of long-term isolation. No mobile suit troops officer is," he explained before adding, "No offense."

Soletta dismissed it. After all, Fielding piloted one too. "I still don't care for it.'

"Of course not. But the Defense Minister and I recognized his value. Trust me, this is quicker and more humane than the alternatives. You can't enslave technical specialists at gunpoint, and _sharashkas _only work in the face of an enemy promising total extermination, which isn't the case."

"You've given this a lot of thought, Fielding."

"I give _everything _a lot of thought, Captain," he repeated. "Put me in solitary confinement with a network connection and a slide rule, and I'd find out how to turn a colony torus ring into a doomsday weapon."

He closed the paper booklet and rubbed his temples. "_But _I'd need an engineer to do the drafting work." Sighing, he stood up. "How's the Defense Minister settling in, since most of the fleet's in dock?"

The already tense Soletta stirred a little. "She's not liking it. She's had the whole neighborhood on the edge of the Military Quarter barricaded and sealed. 'Anti-espionage measures' she's calling it, no one gets in or out."

"That seems…rather extreme," Fielding observed, grabbing his briefcase. "Didn't you grow up not far from here?"

"I went to school in the neighborhood, yes," she told him somberly.

**II**

"Mr. Willard Pratt?"

The ex-First President of the Republic of Utah looked up from the chair under the shade of his porch. An OZ officer climbed off a surprisingly quiet motorcycle he'd driven up the path to Pratt's summer home outside the town of Holladay.

"I didn't even hear you, soldier," he offered calmly, lowering his newspaper and looking over the rims of his reading glasses.

"Electric motorcycle, Mr. Pratt."

"Mr. _President_, soldier" Pratt corrected him.

"_Second Lieutenant_," the OZ officer corrected him in turn. On his green uniform sleeve was the patch of the 99th Carabineri Company of the 8th Alpine Division, OZ Earth Army.

Pratt grunted and crossed his legs. "What do you want?"

"The envoy from the Romefeller Foundation will be arriving in a half-hour. She wanted me to inform you in person."

Pratt almost fell out of his chair. "Excuse me, what? Duke Dermail agreed to my request?"

"Yes, sir, and his personal envoy will be meeting you soon. She's not far behind me."

"Why wasn't I called?" he asked, standing up.

"I don't know, sir."

"Wait, you said 'envoy'. Duke Dermail isn't meeting me personally?"

"No, sir, he sent his envoy, Ms. Dorothy Catalonia," he repeated insistently.

"Why didn't he?"

"I don't know these sort of things, sir," the officer explained, sounding more and more impatient. "Ms. Catalonia was part of the negotiations following the Liberation of Colorado, so she has some experience in this region."

"More like the Invasion of Colorado," Pratt muttered. The officer ignored him, instead looking up at the contrails of a strategic airlifter flying overhead.

"You should probably prepare, sir," he said distantly after a moment.

"I know that, I don't need you telling me that," he muttered before adjusting his slippers and running through the front door.

Just as the second lieutenant had warned, a long, gold-colored limousine had made its way up the snaking country road, escorted by two open-top 4WD military jeeps. Following a uniformed bodyguard detail, Dorothy Catalonia exited in an expensive gown belonging to the Romefeller Foundation's diplomatic corps and a sash in OZ colors going over one shoulder.

By then, Pratt was ready. As first president, one of his primary functions in the republic was to receive foreign dignitaries, a responsibility it seemed he still had. His family 'clan'—his wife, three sons, a daughter, and the seven grandchildren who were present at the estate—were practically Utahan royalty and one of the greatest political dynasties in North America. They knew how to play the part, even to the young heard of the death of their greatest political ambitions.

Dorothy played her part as well, shaking the hand of each family member, one by one, with an unflinching smile and unshakable enthusiasm. After finishing, she put her hands together in front of her gown and spoke. "My grandfather, the Duke of Liechtenstein and Chairman of the Romefeller Foundation, offers his most sincere apologies: the interstellar war demands he remain in close proximity of the military headquarters in Luxembourg," she said, sounding surprisingly sincere and giving a bow.

The ex-first president barely held back his disappointment. "We're very grateful that you were able to join us, Ms. Catalonia."

The former first lady, Ann Pratt, saw her husband and tried to change the subject. "Ms. Catalonia, it's wonderful to finally meet you. Or should I call you _Lady _Catalonia."

Dorothy gave a thin, unnerving smile. "My father, the late-General Chilias Catalonia, would have inherited the title of Duke of Liechtenstein. I am allowed to take the title of 'Lady', but I prefer not to, since I have not had a military career."

Anna looked surprised. "But you're so young…"

"Yes, Mrs. Pratt, but women and men not much older than me are fighting and dying in Outer Space."

**III**

From the end of his phone conversation with Fielding, Walker appreciated that he didn't really have a choice, that they would not allow him to just sit out the conflict regardless of what international law said on the matter. They were correct in that he didn't have the mental fortitude to reject them on principle and remain in solitary confinement.

_I once knew an Alliance junior lieutenant who'd applied just to have a reprieve from his own demons. He'd managed to pass the psychiatric evaluation and earn a commission in the Alliance Engineering Corps despite being deathly afraid of being left alone with his own thoughts, shaped from a abruptly traumatic experience that he had bottled up years ago. Whether he was emotional stunted or just delusional, he did not consider being K.I.A. the worse thing that could happen. _

Sitting on the mattress, Walker scratched his chin and waited. _He'd always said he'd shoot himself in the face before being put in solitary confinement_, he thought warily.

Walker didn't think he was that far gone, but he had second thoughts. Standing up, he kicked the door twice.

The staff sergeant appeared again, open the door very quickly. "Well, Captain?"

"…what is it that you want me to do?"

The NCO took Walker out of the barracks as quickly as he'd brought him in, and with his hands unbound the two took a military car through the Quarter, stopping frequently for traffic.

"Congestion's just going to keep getting worse," the sergeant explained dimly. Walker didn't comment. He did, however, notice the Space Forces Military Gymnasium, a rectangular, windowless building with an outdoor area including a basketball court. Three men were engaged in a pick-up game and watching them, Walker realized they were prisoners like him from their standard-issue fatigues, the kind worn underneath military normal suits. They were supervised by a single, bored-looking armed guard.

Walker kept it to himself. "Here we are, Captain," he announced when the jeep came to halt in front of a hydraulic door large enough to accommodate cargo loading and unloading. Walker deduced it was probably the entrance to one of the smaller military hangars in D-120. A long walk through dimly-lit corridors, deeper into the colony's superstructure, confirmed it.

Another officer, clearly Captain Fielding's assistant from the squadron patch he wore, was waiting there. "Is this him?"

"Yes sir, Lieutenant."

The officer checked his watch and gave Walker a wary look. "Well, he'll have to do for now. Bring him in."

They finally entered the hangar, upon which Walker gasped quietly. Sitting inside there, with a half-complete electrostatic paint job, was an OZ-12SMS 'Taurus', half OZ Space Forces black and half UESA Pioneer Troops violet. There was some visible damage from glancing beam fire and impacts from 105 mm HEAMS projectiles, but the mobile suit was almost entirely intact. Behind it, in a separate maintenance rack, its beam rifle stood vertically.

"According to the report from Engineering, software decryption is complete, except for autonomous combat mode, which we don't really care about," he began, glancing at his clipboard. "What we need from you it to make it combat operational."

"Did you capture this with those troops? The ones playing ball?"

The officer gave the sergeant a look, who shook his head. "No, this was one of your fabled mobile dolls."

Walker put his hands on his hips. "And what's wrong with it?"

"Why don't you tell me, sir," the junior officer asked laconically, putting his clipboard behind his back.

He gave an annoyed sigh. "The repairs on the servometers look substandard."

"Which ones?"

"All of them," Walker shouted back, causing him to jump a little. "The quality of metal used for the new armor facings, particularly this one on the left forearm, certainly _looks _to be of poor quality, but I guess there's no helping that," he added, pointing.

"Have you tested the powerplant output? What is it?"

The officer looked through his clipboard. "The report isn't specific…"

"Lieutenant!" Walker shouted.

"After the most recent repairs…under twenty-three hundred kilowatts."

Walker put a hand to his forehead briefly. "You know I'm not a miracle worker, right? You're going to need at least ten percent better output if you want high-mobility combat."

The officer stared at Walker with some consternation before cracking a smile. "And that's your expert opinion, sir?"

**IV**

In civilian dress—a dark sweater over an opened-collar shirt and khaki slacks—Second Lieutenant Edward Parsons waited in a popular coffee shop on the edges of New Town's business district. From where he sat, one of the colony's inner dorsal walls was clearly visible, painted neutral white-blue and discreetly lined with access lines and maintenance hatches. The Area 'D' football club semifinals played on the nearby monitor, and within earshot a Colonial couple was discussed the impact of traffic in Old Town and their relief that its military operations had not particularly changed life in their neighborhood.

E.P. sat directly in front of the second-floor window overlooking the nearby city park. Past that park, behind a security barrier and a chain link fence, was the D-120's Weather Control Center. Glancing over a stack of books on loan from a nearby library, he spent hours each day staring at the unremarkable grey concrete building and the adjacent sensor tower. He didn't sketch or take any sort of notes on his observation—that was too obvious, even this far from the militarized sections of the city.

The glass doors underneath him swung open, and a pair of Colonial officers in uniform entered, greeting the baristas cheerily and ordering expressos. E.P. glanced through the gaps in the tiles of the floor beneath him for a second before looking back up.

_Don't worry about the military. Worry about the Noventan Secret Service_, he thought before taking a sip from his cup. In most of New Town, daily life had a surprising air of normality, probably a reflection of the many weeks L1-D-120 had spent under military alert more than anything. Civil defense volunteers roamed the streets in surplus Alliance uniforms, primarily on patrol in the evenings and conducting impromptu building inspections during the day. Like everywhere else, civilian police made their presence known, now carrying heavier weapons and occasionally wearing body armor. But no mobile suits had been seen in his time there, and overhead flights by military helicopters were rare.

Taking a break from the hardback he was reading, E.P. scanned the Weather Control Center with his eyes again. Police regularly patrolled the main building's flat roof, entering and exiting through two small stairwells at opposite corners. At least one converted 4WD military jeep, painted in police colors, made rounds through the perimeter and into the park grounds on an hourly basis before vanishing into the building again.

_Cheap, effective security precautions. Somewhere, another infiltrator from the Military Commissariat has the assignment of mapping the underground access points. I don't envy them_.

He heard a jostling sound, as the two officers who had entered earlier abruptly stood up, almost knocking over their expressos, before one ran through the open doors and stared at the dorsal wall of the colony torus structure. A few seconds later, there was a minor tremor resembling an earthquake, and the coffeehouse went silent. Though surprised, E.P. had an idea what it might have been.

**V**

The announcement came over the office intercom. "_Sirs, we're standing down from alert, no further objects detected. Damage control teams are en route, but they're only expecting one small impact._"

"That wasn't a long-range orbital missile," the adjutant of the general that was briefing President Gwinter Septim III announced.

"How do you know?" the general asked.

"We would have gotten an alert well before this, sir."

"Excuse me, but…why couldn't that have been an 'orbital' missile?" Septim asked.

The general gestured at his adjutant to step back and cleared his throat. "Of course, Your Excellency. To attack a space colony from Earth, over the distance of hundreds of thousands of kilometers, the most obvious way is to put your weapon in orbit, either by launching it or from a system already in orbit. The Alliance's Orbital Missile Silos worked this way, for example. Over a long period of time, the missile travels in orbit, inactive and largely indistinguishable from any other kind of debris, until it gets into range."

"Upon which it functions like a conventional missile?" Septim finished for him.

The general opened his hand. "Exactly, Your Excellency. In that final stage, the missile is also immediately detectable, like any conventional battlefield weapon. Most of the missiles, and all torpedoes, carried by warships that you're familiar with behave conventionally and expend large quantities of fuel to travel in a direct line to their target, with minimal influence of gravity, hence why they're so detectable. So you fire them in a cluster, cover them with some amount of ECM and hope that one makes it to its target."

"But you can't do that with an orbital missile?" Septim asked.

"A number of identically-sized, identically-massive objects in orbit is the most blatant giveaway of them not being space debris, Your Excellency," the adjutant added.

"That was a barrage of missiles. OZ is within direct targeted distance of their torpedoes," the general concluded softly.

Unlike his relaxing general, Septim was visibly tense, standing up jerkily behind his desk and reaching for a digital notebook sitting on its corner. He pressed a key and paused. "Has there been an update?"

"_Sir, we've confirmed one missile got through. The rest were intercepted by air defense. Superstructure damage on the north bracing arm, primarily cosmetic_."

"Thank you."

"Nothing to worry about, Your Excellency," the general said quickly, also standing.

"Except OZ is within torpedo range."

"OZ is just probing our defenses past the Ventei Line. Given Defense Minister Arroway's absence, it's to be expected. Once her fleet is underway, they'll quickly withdraw, if they're already so conservative in its absence."

"Once she deploys, yes." Septim turned to him. "She's still at D-120, overseeing the rearmost defensive lines," he told him very anxiously.

The general coughed. "Of course, though frankly, I think that's left better to the Reserve Army commanders than the Defense Minister." He paused before hurriedly adding. "In my own estimation, sir."

**VI**

"So, he spent the next eighteen hours—in other words, the rest of the working day, even for a prisoner-of-war—repairing the captured Taurus mobile suit."

Fielding ran a hand through his light hair, smoothing out a few errant curls. "And then he decided it was operational?"

"That was his conclusion. He even finished a report, if you can call it that," Fielding's adjutant explained, handing over a single page of military stationary. Aside from the pre-printed lines of text, there was some handwriting scrawled out in the middle. "I suppose he finally acknowledged we'd already made the unit operational."

"_Mostly _operational," Fielding corrected him, taking the repot. "We'll wait for Major Khattāb's own report, but I have a feeling he'll be proven correct."

The adjutant's eyes narrowed. "He's just one engineer, sir."

"You're right—he's only one. But he is the right man for the right time." Fielding leaned back in his chair, tapping his left riding boot against the ground. "Is Admiral Arroway still in-colony?"

"Yes sir."

"Inform the Defense Minister that Walker is still amenable for the time being, and should be put to work while he's still of use to us. She'll know exactly what I mean."

Having finished his work on the Taurus, Walker saw fit to collapse onto a bunk in the hangar typically used for hangar personnel resting between shifts, under the watching eye of the security detail posted to him. As before, it was before dawn when he was roused from his bed.

"Lieutenant, are you awake?"

Walker muttered an indistinct response before sitting up in his working suit. The NCO next to him shoved a tray of food into his lap followed by a cup of coffee. In a half-awake, instinctual manner, he tore through the tray's plastic, began shoving the food into his mouth and finished the coffee.

"Damn it, it's not even morning yet. Can you wait until your fake sun rises at least?" Walker muttered between bites.

"Feeling rested?" he asked with no trace of sarcasm.

"This food is pretty bad," he said after a moment.

The NCO nodded somberly. "You've been finished here and are being move to one of the mobile weapons projects for the Capital Defense Plan."

Walker yawned loudly. "Capital Defense?"

"It's everything that's not part of the forward fleet," the NCO explained quickly, taking the empty tray and cup from him.

"Fine, let's go," Walker mumbled. "What hangar is it in?"

"Not here. It's in the central military dry dock across town."

Walker scratched his head and pulled his collar down. "What it is, a mobile carrier?"

"You'll see," the staff sergeant assured him, a little humor leaking into his voice, as the small door into the bunkroom slid open. Followed by another pair of enlisted men, a young woman in a uniform summer coat and sunglasses entered, and the sergeant and the rest of the detail turned to salute. Walker remained and squinted at the woman in the darkness, particularly at her sunglasses. He could barely make out anything in the light.

"Are you ready, Flight Lieutenant Walker?"

"Have we met?" Walker asked, entirely serious.

"He's ready, ma'am," the staff sergeant announced.

Captain Soletta peered over the rim of her sunglasses as the dazed, haggard-looking Walker. _He looks worse than when he arrived_, she noted, before gesturing for him to be brought. Rather than heading for a jeep, they walked to a parking area that was in the process of being cleared of vehicles.

Soletta found Walker shuffling slowly about, hands in his pockets, trying to put a little distance between him and the ever-present security detail. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

"Again, have we met?" he repeated.

"You're not afraid of flying, I hope?" she interrupted him.

"I was a unit commander in the Alliance Middle East Air Army," Walker explained indignantly.

"Good," she replied as a small utility helicopter with military markings descended on the parking lot. Whatever bravado Walker had seemed to evaporate as the helicopter came closer, itself barely illuminated and looking woefully obsolete.

"So this'll take me to the dry dock?" Walker yelled to be heard over the rotors. She nodded back at him and he kept squinting at the helicopter, presumably studying the make and model. When it touched down, the staff sergeant ran to it first, immediately speaking to the crew through the cockpit window and gesturing at Walker repeatedly.

_This is worrying_. Walker watched the staff sergeant point at him again before leaving the window and gesturing at them to board. With the sunglasses-wearing woman following a step behind him, he boarded the outdated utility helicopter manned by a pair of Alliance officers in olive-drab uniforms and helmets. The pilot was yelling at him, but between the helicopter's loud turbine and the pilot's bulky helmet, he could barely make out what the other was saying. At first, it was just their communication with their control tower that was incredibly muffled and indecipherable, sounding more like static-ridden shouting through a bullhorn, but then the pilot looked over his seat and addressed Walker directly in an unclear voice.

"Excuse me?"

The pilot tried again, shouting louder.

"Arigh, fursdyme ina helicopper, Walkuh?"

Leaning away from the officer, Walker cocked his head and shook it.

She raised her voice and Walker could hear her clearly. "Don't worry, Sir Oswald. Scott here is a…fine pilot."

He could see her wince immediately after saying that, apparently realizing she sounded just doubtful enough to cause Walker to become more alarmed, before looking away through her sunglasses. Walker immediately began buckling the seats restraints over his chest. Looking past the pilots only worried him further: the helicopter's instrumentation was clearly analog, lacking digital readouts, and surprising bear. He still couldn't identify the make or model: the helicopter design could be a century or older from what he knew.

"Hey, why is only the sergeant joining us? Where's the rest of the security detail?" he asked. Another muffled, indecipherable response.

Silence wasn't an option in the helicopter. The utility helicopter jerked into the air, turning twenty degrees before it stabilized again and began bobbing about. After they had cleared the building tops, the pilot turned his head and began again, sounding a little clearer. "'Names' Lieutenant Glenn Carpenter, but everyone calls me 'Scott'. And this is my co-pilot, Second Lieutenant Niazi! Right, Niazi!"

"I hate flying with you!" the uniformed co-pilot yelled sharply.

"He's a real kidder, this one!" Scott laughed before leaning over and actually elbowing the co-pilot. "So, first time in a helicopter, Walkuh?"

"Actually, no, it isn't."

"It is?"

"No, I'm saying it isn't, Scott!"

"So it's your first time in a helicopter, huh?" Scott yelled back in response. "I'm from Earth too. Joined the UESA Air Force in 'Ninty-One, Army Aviation Service. Thought I'd fly gunships. Apparently not!"

Abruptly, an old-style warning alarm sounded, two repeating shrill notes, before Scott turned back to the controls and immediately smacked his hand on the vibrating console. With every turn, the seats and instrumentation console wobbled on the helicopter's frame.

"The guide lights are off, they must be saving electricity," the co-pilot observed.

"I think I forgot night-vision goggles!" Scott yelled.

"You're wearing them," Walker pointed out, unable to resist, before his smile vanished. He looked at the officer in the sunglasses, then at the pilot. "Wait, you're flying us and you can't see the ground?"

Scott gave him a suspicious look in turn. "What kind of business you got with them anyway? Who did you say you worked for?" he mumbled very loudly.

"OZ's Space Mobile Suit Troops," the woman explained. "He's a…"

"I'm a civilian contractor," he cut her off to her surprise. "The Noventan Army took the space station I was working on."

The pilot seemed satisfied and nodded before turning away and scanning the horizon three times.

"Your night-vision goggles." Walker repeated.

"Oh, right!" He flipped the switch on his antiquated helmet-mounted infrared goggles and jolted in his seat. "Whoa! It's too dark! Or not dark enough!" He flipped the switch and sighed in relief, not seeing Walker staring at him with wide eyes.

"Have you ever met the admiral before?" he asked, or at least Walker thought he asked—the rotars were getting louder again. "When we land, three things for you in case you speak to or meet with the admiral: No eye contact! Be real polite! _And for godsakes don't mention her mother_!"

A very violent shudder meant Walker didn't see the officer sitting next to him shake her head at Scott's remark. The co-pilot interjected again. "You know, I have a car, we could have just taken my car!" he yelled.

Walker didn't trust himself to answer that, so he didn't, even after the helicopter abrupt dove more than fifty meters before pulling up again. The seemingly interminable helicopter ride through the torus finally came to its conclusion, with the helicopter coming to a hover above a landing site adjacent to a massive, darkened concrete structure. The officer leapt out and Walker was about to follow her when the pilot once again addressed him, this time leaning past his seat.

"Okay, Walkuh, three things before ya' gedoff! Don't make eye contact, _don't _mention this flight,_ and for godsakes, don't mention her mother_!"

**VII**

"_The data on Khattāb's sortie in the captured Taurus unit has been promising. Looks like Captain Fielding's little scheme is actually working._"

Captain Soletta, the ranking officer at the military dock, and a Reserve Army lieutenant were being briefed by the primary display in the dock's central traffic control. On the screen, Admiral Arroway sat leaning back in a recliner, the colony skyline visible through the bay windows behind her, along with Major Khattāb in his service uniform.

"Yes ma'am. With your approval, my own team here at the docks is fully prepared to start working with Oswald Walker on the unit."

Arroway smirked and tapped her folded fan against her desk. "_Curb your enthusiasm, Lieutenant. Just because Walker was able to fix a mobile suit that he operated doesn't mean his expertise will extend everywhere. That said, with him remaining in the military docks, you have my approval to make as much use of him as you can manage._"

"Thank you, Defense Minister, ma'am."

Arroway's eyes shifted. "_Captain Soletta, I believe? You're off the hook so far as our guest is concerned. Return to your duties._"

Without her coat and sunglasses, Soletta stood visibly rigid and tense. "Yes ma'am. With your permission, ma'am, I'm volunteering to pilot the operational combat unit as part of the Capital Defense Plan, should the situation come to that."

Khattāb's jaw dropped. Arroway raised an eyebrow. "_While your performance at the Battle of Midway was excellent, Captain, are you sure you want to leave your squadron in the Republican Guard? Major Khattāb has told me he'd be available to…_"

Soletta interrupted her. "Ma'am, I understand, but with my own mobile suit still under repair, and OZ now within striking distance of D-120, I think I'd be put to better use in the final unit while the major continued operating the Taurus unit," she said quickly.

Behind Arroway, Khattāb looked horrified, even betrayed. Arroway just gave a bemused smile. "_Very well. Your performance in this campaign has been outstanding and I've heard your records are superb. I'll approve your transfer out of the Republican Guard and becoming the new unit's pilot._"

Soletta smirked a tiny bit herself. "Thank you, ma'am, I thought you would understand."

Khattāb spoke. "_Defense Minister, I think_…"

Clearly enjoying herself, Arroway cut off the major. "_I have no right to deny such a decorated officer a purposeful transfer to defend her homeland. May the Heavens bless the heir of the Soletta family, defenders of the Alliance in Outer Space._"

Soletta clicked her heels together and saluted, as did the other two officers present. "_Dio salvi l'Alleanza_!"

Arroway just smiled widely and raised her rise hand to her face before the connection terminated. Soletta looked similarly pleased as she turned to the stairway exit and climbed out. The two remaining officers exchanged looks before the Reserve Army lieutenant quickly followed behind her.

The actual military dry dock was a cavernous chamber long and tall enough to accommodate a large cruiser. However, Walker followed an Alliance Space Forces technical chief through the passages running parallel to it, into a subsidiary chamber separate from the colony outer wall.

"We're holding the unit in here until it's fully operation and has been outfitted. Then we'll move it over to the main military hangar in the bracing arm, where there's no gravity. Here, watch your eyes," he said, reaching for a bank of switches and flipping three at a time.

One by one, three groups of lights along the high ceiling came illuminated the room's contents: a large, tall cylinder, about four meters in height with multiple tiers of finely-machined tubing running in parallel to the top.

"A ship fusion reactor." Walker turned to the technician. "So you're working on a warship."

"It's…sort of like that," he admitted rather vaguely.

"Going by the size of this, I'd say a frigate. I took the least safe helicopter ride in Earth Sphere to help you install a frigate's powerplant?"

He laughed. "Yes, Lieutenant Scott's a real treat. Can you look at those unshielded electromagnets? This is a lot easier with two people or more."

"Where's the rest of your staff?"

The technical chief looked at him. "I suppose you'll find out anyway: this is the staff. Everyone else is at the forward defensive line. I'd be there too if it weren't for this."

In a few minutes, Walker was elbow-deep in the cavity that metal ring that held the reactor's containment field generator, the technician watching closely over his shoulder and helping him lift a large semi-circular bank of magnets from their socket. When the phone on the wall rang, he walked to it immediately and picked it up.

"Assembly dock, go ahead." Walker ignored him as he gave a number of mumbled affirmatives before concluding. "Yes sir, Lieutenant."

Bracing himself against the titanium alloy casing, Walker slammed part of the magnetic array down into its socket before pausing for breath.

"So, that was _my _boss in the Reserve Army. Apparently, the unit's got a pilot now, and she'll want to give it a looking over." He rolled his eyes. "Like any of these officers know a _tokamak_ from a water heater, huh?" he jibed in a friendly tone.

Walker didn't respond, so he just gave a cough. "They didn't give you any eye protection?"

"I had goggles, but they took them with my uniform."

"Er, right," the chief muttered, taking his own from around his neck and handing them to Walker. "Here. I've got spare in my office, somewhere."

"Thank you," Walker replied tersely, while the chief climbed half-way up the reactor.

"Not bad for your first go. I always hate seating magnets. Really, I've always hated magnets in general, but that's beside the point." He dropped himself down. "Mind taking a look at the cryostat? I…really don't want to die when we finally turn this on."

"I don't really have a choice, do I?" Walker coolly reminded him.

He coughed again. "I guess that's true," he admitted. "I guess it doesn't hurt to tell you, I'm actually a civilian contractor. Well, sort of. I wasn't in the Alliance Army, I just work for the D-120 branch of the First Lagrange Shipbuilding Conglomeration."

"I got that impression," Walker informed him. "You said 'pilot', as in one pilot. This frigate of yours has only one pilot?"

"The only crew member, actually. It's…not really a frigate," he began, turning to see Walker two-thirds of the way up the reactor housing on the opposite side as before. Shrugging, the technical chief took a pair of hoses from the wall and swung them over his shoulder before climbing up himself.

Walker was still working with the delicate electronics of the cryogenics system, occasionally wiping his dirty gloves on his worksuit, when he heard shouting above him. He glanced up, adjusted his new goggles, and then wiped another stain out on his suit.

"What was that about?" he asked as conversationally as he could to the Alliance Space Forces technician knelt down next to him.

"Probably a briefing from Admiral Arroway, the Defense Minister, they take those in the control area for morale."

"I see," he responded, groping around the wiring treated with insulating black paste before wiping his hand on his shoulder. Shielding his face, he flipped a nearby switch. After a momentary hum, the lights on a nearby display panel went from red to green and Walker snapped the open compartment shut before climbing back down.

"You know, I thought they were exaggerating about technicians from OZ, but you've definitely got the touch," he told him, carefully watching the data readout.

Walker said nothing, pulling off his goggles before wiping his insulation-covered hands against his worksuit again. He heard the sound of a bulkhead door opening and turned to the long maintenance stairway that extended behind him to the level above, where two Space Forces officers strolled down, bright lights illuminating their perfect, olive uniforms. They wore same blouses as OZ uniforms, albeit solid black rather than maroon, the branch color of the UESA Mobile Suit Troops, both in the Army and Space Forces. He was momentarily struck by how much they reminded him of their counterparts in OZ—they were both young, maybe even younger than he was, and the one in front was a smallish woman with long, wavy hair held back in an elastic band. Her epaulets said she was a captain, the same rank as him, and she had olive skin and dark hair tinged blue. The young man behind her was a lieutenant, with Southeast Asian features and dark, slicked back hair.

Unsure what to do, Walker moved out of their way as they descended, standing by the stairway politely. Strangely, the woman looked at him directly as she passed.

"So you were also a Taurus pilot?"

"Ah…" Words seemed to be fail him then.

"That would make you a combat engineer of sorts."

He didn't think it was the time to argue semantics. "That's correct, Captain." He squinted at her. _Now that I can finally see, that's the captain from this morning. _

She cocked her head very slightly and gave him a smug, conceited but vaguely sympathetic smile. "Don't disappoint us."

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, both officers marched in a straight line to the bulkhead door, with the junior officer remaining behind. Walker glanced at the chief, feeling himself relax. "What was that about? Why talk to me now?"

"You should avoid all of them," the chief offered. "Especially Captain Soletta. You ever hear the expression 'brimming with hate'?"

He glanced at the closed door. "That smug snake routine is just what she uses to cover up the fact."

The lieutenant, having overheard the chief's remark, grinned abruptly. "You want to see something really cool?"

The lieutenant guided both Walker and the technical chief through another bulkhead, this one adjacent to a massive set of blast doors large enough for components like the reactor to past through. They entered another dark chamber, the only light from the path running along the bridge that went across a chasm.

"What is it with you people and the darkness?" Walker muttered. "If you want to kill me, go ahead and do it in proper lighting."

"Just cross the bridge, Walker, and try not to fall," the lieutenant jeered. Walker quietly obeyed, grasping onto the guardrail and crossing the gantry, the dimensions becoming more apparent in the darkness.

"This is a very large hangar. Big enough for a missile ship or a patrol craft or…"

At the other end of the gantry, the lieutenant flipped the main breaker, and the entire hangar was bathed in light. Walker looked up at the lights, then behind on the gantry, and jumped: arrayed just past him was a massive behemoth, a modular, aerodynamic superstructure framed on both sides with four massive missile pods. Outside of those, and reaching underneath the gantry, were two pairs of massive beam cannons, distinctly older cylindrical Alliance models with cooling sheaths and enormous in size. Each cannon was accompanied by a four-barreled beam gatling. The whole thing was built around a huge reactor housing topped with a massive cylindrical generator in an armored housing and a huge communications array, with further wing surfaces behind.

_What a monster! _ "W-What is this? Is this a mobile armor?"

He grinned at him across the hangar. "You've got an eye for this. Look closer."

Walker turned back to the behemoth behind him and squinted. Just behind the aerodynamic 'beak' was the power core, which he stared at oddly. A second later, he realize it wasn't just a power core the size of mobile suit, it was actually a mobile suit. There was a Leo-E docked into the structure, its trademark monoeye visible but the rest of it shielded behind aerodynamic armor plates.

"That reactor you worked on is the primary, of course, and should put out forty-eight hundred kilowatts. It takes a modified Leo's flight computer to control it through. All the targeting data is relayed back to it as well."

He leaned against the wall near the breaker. "We thought about putting a separate cockpit underneath the nosecone, but all the prospective pilots shot it down."

Walker turned to the chief, who'd followed them in. "She's piloting this, that captain?"

"You betcha'," he said in that folksy voice of his.

He leaned over the gantry for a better view of its large landing gear. "Six vernier thrusters…four missile pods, plus two under the wings…point-defense beam gun...two heavy beam cannons, four beam gatlings and some sort of...rail gun! This is more firepower than a squadron of Space Leos!" He pressed his cap against his head, staring upwards.

"So the Alliance designed and almost finished a mobile weapon without anyone in OZ knowing."

The chief crossed the gantry to him and nodded. "Anyone but you." He crossed his arm. "It's the third model I'm told."

"The _third_? What happened to the first two?" Walker asked, not taking his eyes off the mobile armor.

"The second one, 'Epidendrum' is here. The first one was abandoned on Earth, somewhere in North America I think. They called that one 'Caardus'."

"And this one?"

"Chrysanthemum. EA-01MA1 'Chrysanthemum'."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_You can't tell now, or maybe you can, but that last scene with Walker, a technician, Captain Soletta and the junior officer from the dry dock was an even worse mess than it is now. There's a very obvious reason: I wrote that scene literally months ago, at a burst of inspiration (and as an homage to a scene in _Gundam Unicorn_, though maybe 'homage' is just a way of convincing myself I wasn't totally ripping it off.) Even now it's a little bit of a mess, though I've tried to clean it up. My only excuse was that I was juggling this and a somewhat grueling office job that I've got my own reservations about. _

_The least safe helicopter ride in Earth Sphere is similar, written months ago, and inspired by a Giant Bomb Quicklook at a Russian-developed helicopter flight simulator on Youtube. As you know, I love to be funny (though again, am I actually writing from inspiration or just ripping things off?). On the bright side, I hope it actually does a tiny bit of character building (something I woefully lack) for Arroway (calling back to her mother, many chapters ago)._

_Caardus, Epidendrum and Chrysanthemum-the three mobile armors-are not-so-subtle references/homages/rip-offs to another Universal Century series, _Gundam 0083: Stardust Memory_, which features a mobile armor 'upgrade' for the final battle's Gundam also named after a flower. I ended up going that way simply because I'm no good at coming up with original names, and thought another zodiac-themed name would be thematically inappropriate. And now that this chapter isn't a horrific bumbling mess (or at least is less so), I invite everyone to leave reviews blasting my hokey sense of humor or praising my awkward, jilted attempts at drama._

_Finally, because I forgot to mention it last chapter, Mr. Bailey, the civilian fashion designer hired by the Romefeller Foundation, is a not-so-subtle cameo of famed TV personality and fashion consultant Tim Gunn. The things you can do when you're the writer!_


	44. Better Laid Plans

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 44 - Better Laid Plans**

Standing next to His Grace, Flight Officer Tal held up the remote control and adjusted the image on the projection screen opposite of Duke Dermail's large desk. Dermail Catalonia watched quietly the muddy thermographic video taken during night in one of Luna's more isolated craters in the high latitudes of the southern hemisphere.

In the video, bulky combat machines—OZ-02MD 'Virgo'—lumbered about in the fine lunar soil, yellow-orange blurs against the dark blue terrain. They exchanged beam fire with targeting drones, hot pink and white in the video, as they conducted basic maneuvers.

"And how many assembled units are there?" Dermail asked.

Tal looked at the dimly-lit document he was holding. "Your Grace, including the original twenty chassis assembled in August that have been brought up to combat standard, four-hundred and eighty units are operational. When combined with two command battalions, two engineering companies of forty eight Leo mobile suits each, two supply companies and two transport companies, they'll form two complete divisions, the First and Second Automated Divisions."

Tal flipped the page. "Between the two divisions, there will be ten mobile mobile doll companies, each led by a field commander in a Taurus command-variant mobile suit, making five-hundred and eighty six mobile suits and mobile dolls total, Your Grace."

"So just under eighty two percent of the units are actually mobile dolls," Dermail muttered quietly. On the blurry display, a mobile doll suffered three hits when its protective defensor field failed. It buckled briefly before standing up, turning in the direction of the threat slowly, and firing in response. "This is a very expensive gamble, Tubarov."

Colonel Tubarov Villemont's voice came back, breaking the silence. "_Yes sir. The combat data has been very positive, however, and given the expected resistance, I'm still confident that Operation 'Nova' would still be a great success relying primarily on mobile dolls._"

"And are the related field commanders so confident?"

"_Those I've spoken to, yes._"

Dermail looked away from the video briefly. "Keep production at speed. If we're committed to this, we'll need to have numbers on our side."

"_I couldn't agree more, sir._"

Dermail cut the line with the controls on his desk and gestured at Tal to stop the video and restore the lights in his office, which he did promptly. The Duke of Liechtenstein put his gloved hands together and frowned.

"Mr. Tal?"

"Yes, Your Grace?"

"Get a list of the theater commanders for the zones to be covered by Operation 'Nova', as well as the national U.N.O. representatives or the closest national rep in the area." He gave a deep sigh. "I have a lot of talking to do."

"Are you having second thoughts about the operation, Your Grace?"

Dermail turned to Tal, a little surprised. The flight officer rarely asked questions. "I wish I wasn't. Except perhaps for Tubarov, there's no one who's a greater advocate for relying on unmanned technology to accomplish decisive campaigns while our own minimizing military casualties than myself. And I do hope the fighting troops, like yourself, appreciate mobile dolls as an alternative to putting themselves in danger since we've started using them in Outer Space."

"Of course, Your Grace."

"But I'll admit, there are a great many unforeseen political and even moral implications of the technology," he said, his mustache twitching. "Very time consuming ones at that. War may be a way of life in Outer Space, but it's a poor fit for Earth itself. A decisive victory in Operation 'Nova'—accomplishing all objectives with minimal casualties—would brush that bickering aside. A failure would kill the mobile doll as a weapon, even in Outer Space."

Dermail turned back in his seat. "I hope you appreciate that I've shared something confidential in the high civilian government with you, Abraham."

Tal blinked rapidly. "Of course, Your Grace, I'm very grateful for your trust."

Dermail chuckled under his mustache. "Of course. And I bet you already knew that my nephew, Treize, is among the loyal opposition on this matter. Total victory in Operation 'Nova' is the only thing that might sway his mind."

He turned again. "He has this notion that divorcing the fighting troops from the actual combat will make undue light of war. That it's worth the casualties and suffering among the soldiers and officers of OZ to keep them right in the face of the conflict. A little outdated for such a man so close to the troops, wouldn't you say?" He rolled his eyes. "You don't need to answer that, Mr. Tal."

"Uh, thank you, Your Grace."

**II**

Oswald Walker was sitting in the cockpit of the mobile suit core of the EA-01MA1 'Chrysanthemum', the hatch open and a toolbox with a mini-computer in it sitting on his lap. He was plugged into the modified flight computer that was to control the mobile armor in flight, another original product of the Alliance, as OZ hadn't produced a flight computer for a mobile armor that he knew of.

"You're taking for granted that, if you equip a new flight computer, you can simply use our existing operating system on it," he muttered to himself, glancing at the display before yanking out the cable that ran from the mini-computer to the avionics access port underneath the artificial horizon.

"They do realize, for carrying this many weapons, they really ought to have made provisions for a weapons officer," he said out loud.

"Where would you put him?" the technical chief shouted back.

The chief had an obvious point—there was no accommodation in the standard mobile suit cockpit for another piloting officer, and no way to extend the cockpit in any useful direction to make room. The weapons system officer would have had to sit in the mobile armor, physically separated from the pilot.

_I suppose that if Unit 03's pilot handles almost the same amount of firepower by himself, another young Colonial pilot should be able to do the same_, he thought. _Maybe there is some physiological consequence of being born in Outer Space that makes for potentially superior pilots. _

As if on cue, he flipped the switch to restart the starboard display panel, where he could see Captain Soletta speaking to a subordinate from the walkway along the wall. Frowning, he ran his hand along the right side instrumentation until he found the audio pickup controls and switched the microphone on, making their conversation audible.

"_Is there any indication how long before the Chrysanthemum is operational?_" she asked.

"_Even Chief Null wasn't sure of that, ma'am. The problems remain power generation and propulsion_," the other officer replied. "_It's possible that with Walker's expertise…_"

She cut him off. "_Walker's just an engineer. Even with his recommendations for the captured Taurus, we still need to make the actual improvements. He can't make up for our own manufacturing deficiencies compared to OZ_," she chided him.

Soletta then looked straight into the camera. "_Wouldn't you agree, Flight Lieutenant?_"

A twinge of panic caused Walker to shut off both the monitor display and the audio pickup and he sat quietly in the opened cockpit. Outside, Soletta enjoyed a self-congratulatory smile before continuing down the walkway.

Supported by a safety line hanging from the ceiling above, Chief Null climbed up to the cockpit door. "How's it look?"

"Not any better than when you asked me ten minutes ago," he replied.

Null nodded dutifully before lowering his voice. "Like I said, say away from her."

Walker paused and looked down at him. "We'd already met before today. When I was first captured, she was there during the medical inspection," he said, remembering the young woman who'd stuck a tongue depressor into his mouth authoritatively. He held his head in his left hand. "What is wrong with me, why didn't I recognize her face twice now?"

"Maybe you're just not used to Outer Space," he offered helpfully.

Walker rolled his eyes. "Or maybe it's because I'm working sixteen hour days after getting shot in the chest with a stun gun," he retorted quietly.

**III**

"And there's been no information as to his status or whereabouts?"

Second Lieutenant Aretha Walker, of OZ Space Forces, took the call from the Lunar Military District at her temporary office at Antonio Marceo Air Force Base. As a non-flying officer, she was only present at the base as the adjutant to Squadron Commander Nathaniel, who was apparently handling noncombat issues with Colonel Khushrenada. When the call came, she thankfully had plenty of time to take it.

"And what about the International Red Cross?" she asked angrily. "What's the point of having the Red Cross if it doesn't handle this sort of thing?"

Another pause. "What do you mean the Republic of Noventa isn't a signatory? Signatory of what?"

Mr. Bailey, in another impeccably-fitted pinstriped suit with a visitor's ID badged pinned to the chest, entered holding some cloth patterns. "Oh, Aretha, I didn't realize you were on the phone…" he began politely.

Aretha put the handset to the chest. "What is it, Mr. Bailey?"

"I'm looking for your boss, Mr. Nathaniel."

"He's in the middle of a squash game," Aretha informed him quickly before putting the handset back to her ear. "No, I'm still here."

She sighed. "And you have our mother's contact information? Fine. Please message me on the military network," she said with a sigh before hanging up.

"Is something the matter, Aretha?"

She shook her head. "No, nothing. Was there something else you needed, Mr. Bailey?"

The much older gentleman gave her a cock of his head and a knowing look. "Are you sure?"

She put a hand to her forehead. "My older brother, a flight lieutenant in the Mobile Suit Troops, has been taken prisoner somehow. The military is still trying to ascertain where he's being held in the space colonies, since his capture wasn't registered with the Red Cross."

"My Goodness, that's horrible!"

She nodded, much more angry than distraught. "Yes, very horrible. I'll need to call our mother."

"Well, Aretha, is there anything _I _can help you with, please let me know," he offered sympathetically.

Aretha gave Mr. Bailey an incredulous look—she'd never seen the need for a civilian fashion designer to be hired to make adjustments to the current officer's uniforms—but nodded before forcing a smile. "Thank you, Mr. Bailey."

Her face contorted. "Oh, God, I need to tell Mr. Wú too. Goddamn it, Oswald!"

Mr. Bailey strolled swiftly through the brightly-lit, windowed halls of the airbase until he came upon two more officers—actually noncommissioned officers, members of the bodyguard unit—following Treize Khushrenada.

"Good morning, Your Excellency."

"Good morning, Mr. Bailey. Are you looking for someone?"

"Our young friend, Mr. Nathaniel. Speaking of which, do you know about his young assistant, Aretha?"

"I know of her, yes."

"Her brother, a Lieutenant Walker, was captured in Outer Space."

Treize, who'd been looking through photographs of young people modeling the new uniforms, paused. "Aretha Walker's brother, Flight Lieutenant Walker, was captured in Outer Space?"

"Apparently so," he whispered as though it was a scandalous revelation.

The Count of Neuenberg said nothing after holding the photographs behind his back. "That's a very unfortunate development given our current military situation."

"Sir, in the event something like this came up, I was told to assure you that Outer Space was in good hands and not to worry."

"Who told you to assure me of that?"

Mr. Bailey took a moment to respond. "The Countess of Hannover, Lady Une."

Treize smiled briefly at him before looking back at the model photographs and continuing down the hallway.

**IV**

As expected, Walker spent the rest of the day in the military dry dock, pausing only briefly to take a meal of ration bars and coffee on one of the gantry walkways. As he worked, he learned a few other things: that small closed-circuit cameras, at least twenty of them by his count, covered every meter of the mobile armor, every structural nook and cranny, and were even on automated motion tracking, causing them to slowly turn as he or anyone else walked by.

He learned that the D-120 Machine-Building Enterprise, the colony shipyard, had been converted into a basic mobile weapons arsenal. It was there, in a large section of the colony bracing arm, that the final of the three mobile armors had been assembled on Alliance orders. And it'd been assembled without the knowledge of OZ, supposedly the sole mobile design bureau and arsenal in the entire Earth Sphere. It must have taken several months, at least, to develop two prototypes and a to-be-operational machine, which meant the Alliance had hedged its bets even before Operation 'M' had begun, and it left one of the splinter fiefdoms with a manufacturing base capable of repairing, and even building, mobile weapons.

_Or maybe it's only what I know—that OZ is supposed to be the only enterprise capable of building mobile suits, and only for the United Earth Sphere Alliance's military forces. Of course, the Colony Liberation Organization and Winner Corporation were capable of that too, without public knowledge. And now, L1-D-120, _he thought. _The only factories were supposed to be in the Lunar Military District, under direct Alliance administration. _

He pictured the factories for the new Serpent mobile suit line in L2-X-18999, then the unseen facilities that had built the Gundams, which he could only speculate on. _I guess is one of the secrets Eva was trying to teach me on Luna. _

"You're Walker, right? Do you have a minute?"

It was another technician, one he didn't recognize. An unintentional consequence of being a prisoner-of-war was occupying the very bottom of the hierarchy of whatever organization the P.O.W. was pressed into. At least the Noventans were polite.

"What?"

"Can you look at these build quality reports for the Taurus mobile suit?" He showed him a number of tables that gave analysis of the strength and rigidity of the alloys used on the various armor facings of the captured OZ-12SMS that he'd worked on previously. Walker had only been able to do mechanical adjustments, armor and chassis strength was a construction issue.

As an engineer, Walker knew almost exactly what the tolerances for combat should be, and only had to compare the numbers he knew to what the reports claimed. _If these weren't within acceptable levels, would I tell you? _"They're acceptable, but you know I can't sign off on anything," he said matter-of-factly, not bothering with the reasoning for that.

The technician took a second to process this before laughing. "Thank you, Walker. I won't take up more of your time."

Walker sighed while the technician strolled off, laughing harmlessly. Chief Null strolled up to him, unspooling a length of cable behind him carefully. "I bet you wish you were still on Earth, waking up and enjoying a fair trade blend with organic milk," he added in a friendly tone.

Walker didn't respond as the chief handed him the end of the cable, which he plugged into an open auxiliary port on the beam gatling hanging below them, sending power to the subsystem capacitor. On the nearby tool cart, a small monitor played a video capture of the weapon's firing trials prior to being installed, firing on an indoor target range.

"I mean, that's what I'd be doing," he speculated as he pointed an infrared imager along the beam cannon while it rose in temperature. "D-120's had high self-sufficiency standards even before the war, but the trade embargo's not easy to ignore. Earth corn tastes better, even flash frozen."

"I don't eat much maize," he replied, listening to the steady hum of the subsystem.

"Maize?"

"What you call 'corn'."

"You don't call it 'corn' on Earth?"

"Not in English, no."

"Maize?"

"Maize," Walker repeatedly calmly

"Huh." Null seemed to ponder this while Walker calmly took the infrared imager from him and inspected the area behind the capacitor, confirming the temperature rise was normal.

After a few absent-minded minutes, the chief turned back to him. "Where in North America are you from?"

"Ontario."

He nodded. "Wasn't that the contested area between Federal America and Canada?"

"It was weeks ago."

"So thanks to OZ, your nationality has changed, hasn't it?" he asked pointedly.

"So has yours."

The chief nodded excitedly. "Exactly. We were all Alliance citizens, now I'm a Noventan and you're Canadian."

Walker pulled out the power line with a loud yank, as the humming ceased. "We weren't Alliance citizens," he explained sharply. "The Alliance isn't…_wasn't _a sovereign national entity. It's an international organization whose members are individual states recognized by the Alliance. We were citizens or subjects of Alliance member states. There is no Alliance nationality. Didn't you take high school civics?"

"I did. I…just don't remember it," he conceded.

In truth, while Walker remembered the civics information he had to know to pass the UCSE, the actual philosophy behind it was vaguer, and he'd have been hard pressed to explain it in depth if their conversation wasn't interrupted by a siren blaring. The chief was also caught completely off guard.

"What's that?" Walker asked while glancing at the nearest soldier on guard duty, who only looked upwards briefly under his helmet before returning to his previous stance.

The siren was cut, though the red lights that line the chamber walls still dimly blinked.

"We're just on alert. There must be another attack," Null said finally.

"An attack on the colony?"

The chief shook his head. "No, just in the general area. They come up every so often, like when those missiles hit. It might be more of those. At this point, it's more of a _courtesy report _than an actual alert for the guys in uniform," he said, gesturing at the soldier still standing by the door. "Some of them anyway."

As indicated roughly in the alert heard on D-120, thousands of kilometers away, towards the periphery of the Area D colony cluster, the _Salyut_, a large, flower-shaped repair ship with hull code AR-13 was disengaging its moorings and linkage arms with the damage cruiser it was servicing, the EASFS _Atlas_, while the later ship went onto full combat alert. A half-squadron of mobile suits from the 1st Recon Battalion, divided into two flights, descended on them from a higher plane and separate vectors.

BC-82 was still raising its bow to bring its repaired beam cannons to bear when the two high-speed Taurii flights crossed passed one another, and one dove low beneath it and the other passed directly over. The former went from fighter to mobile suit mode and then opened fire, ignoring the repair ship in favor of the cruiser. Using their beam rifles, they carefully picked off the temporary bulkheads and other repairs made to the _Atlas _after its engagement in July.

"_Six mobile suits against a cruiser? What are they, insane or…arg!_" The signal from an OZ-06SMS terminated when it was destroyed on the damage central catapult by enemy fire, turning into a firing point along the bow.

"_Damocles Actual to all callsigns. Ignore any hostiles that aren't directly engaging and focus your fire on the mothership. Damocles 2-1, break off and watch the escape vector I'm sending you_," Squadron Commander Ogasawara Emi ordered, quickly punching up a map of the quadrant on her left hand MFD. She drew an overlay graphic with the directional eyeball tracking built into her helmet, then sent it over the datalink before she squeezed her right stick again, firing a beam into one of the _Atlas_'s air defense guns.

Moving with limited thrust from the repairs, the _Atlas _manage to put some distance between it and the repair ships as flames began to emerge from wounds along its hull. Damocles Actual, moving in formation with Damocles 1-2 and 1-3, put itself in the _Atlas_' blind spot at its six o'clock about two kilometers away before switching to its beam cannon. While the _Atlas_ began turning to engage, it fired a full-power shot directly into the upper reaction engine nozzle, blowing it apart from the inside as the nuclear fuel combusted at multiple points. The _Atlas_' rate of acceleration declined sharply, but it continued off.

"Keep the screen up at all costs! Route power to our anti-air defenses!" the captain of the _Atlas _ordered from his seat on the bridge, as the armored shutters finally closed over the forward viewport. "What unit is this?"

"I'm trying to identify that, Skipper...unit identity confirmed, they're from the First Recon Battalion!"

"Shouldn't they be off chasing Zechs Merquise? What the hell are they doing out here?" He pounded his fist against his armrest. "Contact headquarters, give them our position and status! And scramble all remaining mobile suits!"

"_Remember, don't hit their comm array until they've made their distress call!_"

"_Acknowledged, Damocles 2-1_!" The second Taurus flight left fighter mode but continued flying along the perimeter, occasionally firing a shot at the cruiser.

On Emi's forward display, Damocles 2-1's pilot appeared in a new window. "_Commander, how long do we have to keep this up?_"

"Just another minute, Kim. Damocles 1-3, cover me while I get in position for another shot!" she ordered, pulling back on both flight sticks. Her Taurus dragged its massive beam cannon about as a burst of light antiaircraft fire grazed both of her wings.

"_Yes ma'am!_" Flight Officer Syed Khan banked her mobile suit and fired her thrusters until she matched Emi's lower velocity when her machine's monoeye flashed. "_Wait…ma'am, they're deploying countermeasures!_"

A pair of dispersal nozzles halfway up the command tower unfolded open and flashed repeatedly. Immediately ahead of the damaged cruiser, a cloud of minute metal and polymer shavings spread out like a cloud, shimmering in the starlight. The cloud's obstructive abilities were just strong enough to disperse the beam fire from the rifles the Taurii carried.

"_Confirming chaff! Damocles 2-2 and 2-3, form on me. They might try something!_"

"_No shit_," Emi snapped back while putting distance between her and the cruiser. "_Keep firing anyway, anything to keep them busy!_"

The Taurii continued firing even as their yellow-white beams were dispersed upon making contact with the shimmering cloud, and Emi switched over to infrared to make out two mobile suits climbing out of the hangar, one of them carrying a large, long weapon.

"_Was is that, a dober gun_?" Damocles 1-3 asked.

"_Negative, it's...shit! Bug out!_" Emi jerked her machine right hard, just in time to escape a powerful blue-white beam emerging from a third the way down the catapult, through the chaff cloud. Damocles 1-3, not as fast, had almost all of its left arm vaporized.

"_Damn, I'm hit, but operational!_"

"_Damn it, Carlos, fall back! They've got a deployed cannon!_" As the chaff cloud began to disperse, the two Pioneer Leo mobile suits came into view, as did the large energy cannon deployed on a simple hydraulic tripod, powered by a cable running back into the hangar.

"_Looks like the Alliance still has a few tricks_," Flight Officer Tsujimoto said in Emi's helmet smugly.

"Yes, I can see that!" she screamed back, as the mobile suit behind the cannon kept firing almost once a second. "Someone shoot the goddamn power line already!"

"_On it!_" Syed Khan announced, flying parallel to the cruiser's catapult, peppering it with fire until she finally cut through the power line. The two mobile suits operating the gun immediately launched unassisted from the catapult, switching to their low-powered beam rifles.

"_Two bandits, flanking!_"

"_This is Damocles 2-1, moving to engage._"

"Save your breath!" Emi ordered as the charge indicator that circled her air-to-air aiming reticle filled completely, signaling that her machine's beam cannon energy cells were prepared to fire again. Switching to automatic air-to-ground mode, she let her machine weapon's pitch and angle for the slow-moving cruiser before squeezing the trigger again. After a few seconds, it fired and a bright beam struck the _Atlas _behind its command tower, puncturing through several layers of armor plating and disabling the remaining thruster. The charged particle wave dissipated after a few seconds, leaving a gaping, glowing crater in the side of the ship.

"All callsigns, form a close perimeter around the _Atlas_," Emi ordered, before switching the channel. "Repair ship _Salyut_, this is Squadron Commander Ogasawara of the First Recon Battalion, OZ Space Forces. Reduce your thrust to zero and disengage all your mooring arms. Space Forces ship will be here in the next twenty minutes to board your ship. You will discard all your small arms, refrain from any EHF and THF transmissions and surrender under the laws of the Third Geneva Convention. Fire a yellow signal flare to confirm your compliance."

**V**

Admiral Arroway was still listening to the report of the attack when General Grumman forced his way into her D-120 office, a panicked look on his face.

"As expected, we've had no further contact with the repair ship _Salyut_," the officer briefing Arroway explained right as Grumman shoved him aside.

"I heard another ship was lost!"

"Right on time, General," Arroway muttered, resting her chin on her hand.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Aren't you going to deploy the fleet? OZ is about to attack, this could be the preliminary phase of a full invasion!"

"General, the preliminary phase of the invasion began when the Ventei Line was crossed in force," the briefing officer explained.

"Fine, this could be the _final _phase then!"

"Commander, could you bring up a map of the quadrant in question?"

"Yes, Defense Minister." The lieutenant commander leaned towards Arroway's large desk, tapped the keyboard repeatedly, bringing up the distant quadrant on the edge of the region. A number of colored points marked the position of the _Atlas _and the _Salyut_, far on the edge of the republic and almost directly opposite of OZ's invasion path.

"What about the rest of the ships out on patrol? Anything larger than a frigate," she instructed.

The officer nodded and a number of new points appeared scattered along the periphery as well.

"You said this was their First Recon Battalion?" she asked a little scornfully.

"Yes ma'am."

"What is it?" Grumman asked nervously.

She rolled her eyes at him. "They're shaping the battlespace," she mumbled. "To be expected from OZ's top unit in Outer Space. They've always had the option to engage one massive push across the border, but they've never taken it willingly."

"Battlespace shaping?"

"It's also called battlefield shaping," she told him scornfully. "They're trying to set both their and our areas of responsibility from the outside going in, to their advantage. That's why they let the _Atlas _report its attack when they could have outright destroyed a weakened cruiser."

"Couldn't they just be trying to capture it?"

"I doubt OZ thinks this operation will continue on long enough to warrant that approach," she told him dismissively. "Leave the space combat to those of us who know what we're doing and try and relax."

Grumman gave an indignant cough before nodding stiffly at the lieutenant commander, who waited for him to leave Arroway's office before speaking again calmly. "Didn't the Special Mobile Suit Troops pioneer tactics for basic maneuver control in Outer Space as well as battlespace shaping, ma'am?"

"I doubt an idiot from the Rocky Mountains would appreciate that fact," she said, gesturing with her fan. "No offense, Lieutenant Commander."

"No taken, ma'am. Should we move up the defense preparations?"

She narrowed her eyes further, thinking on it. "No. Let OZ waste its time pecking on the edges of our space. Even the other colonies could make a good distraction if we're lucky. But do begin with whatever preparations are needed to withdraw any mobile suits from those zones likely to be hit, along with any cruisers large than the _Titan-_class. Concoct whatever story you need to convince them, it won't matter in a week or so anyway."

The officer saluted primly. "Yes ma'am."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_Another shorter chapter that took a depressingly long time to actually finish. Most obviously, I didn't have the hours I thought I would to either write at work or at my out-of-town training for work, and the time I did have was frittered away on other projects too. No one to blame for that but myself._

_First things first—those of you who read the last chapter, "Caardus, Epidendrum and Chrysanthemum," early on, including the righteous reader who left me a the sort of review that drives me to get off my behind and actually keep writing this thing, I plead that you read the last few paragraphs (maybe the whole final scene in the dock with Walker and Soletta) again. Especially if you remember it being a horrible, horrible mess that was clearly a number of different scenes clobbered together. It's been much improved since then, and I can offer no apologies other than I'm not so great at this, I was juggling various things, and I desperately wanted to put something up to meet my own arbitrary deadlines. _

_I promise it'll be better! _

_For starters, I hope this chapter didn't share those same problems and was coherent. As in the past, this is all scene-building for the final showdown at D-120, which will end the first "half" of the series (which is a frightening concept, given how long this already has been). _

_As for this chapter, I suppose it's becoming more and more obvious that Arroway is cooking something up (just like her inspiration, Cima Garahau) behind the scenes, and that she has more than a few people cooperating with her, for all of her rudeness and general unpleasantness. This chapter also reminded me that I don't have a great name for Aretha to refer to her elder brother by—does she call him "Walker" like everyone else? How awkward would that be? I also had a chance to consider exactly what the United Earth Sphere Alliance was, and came to the conclusion that it might be something in the area of a 'Super NATO'—unlike the European Union, its role is heavily military and diplomatic, even though it was _originally _a civilian organization, and doesn't issue citizenry—the nations, and leagues of nations, do that instead. I doubt Walker has my predisposition or knowledge of civics and political history, but he does retain factual information well (at least, what he understands). Hopefully I'm at least consistent in that regard. _


	45. Rational Behavior

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 45 – Rational Behavior**

In the shadow of D-120's Torus ring, he saw it: the 'Chrysanthemum'. The massive mobile armor, with a mobile suit at its core, moved out from an unseen hangar on its massive rocket engines.

Walker watched as it advanced, flanked by large numbers of violent mobile suits and covered by fire from D-120's unending array of defensive beam cannons. It went straight for the advancing lines of OZ's invasion forces.

First, OZ's own mobile suits came to meet it, like black and red wasps wielding beam rifles. Their fire bounced harmlessly against the mobile armor's thick forward armor faces, which protected the mobile suit core. From the multiple missile pods on its sides, white streaks emerged, causing the troops to scattered. Those caught on the edges of the homing missiles exploded, parts of them breaking off.

Behind the troops came the warships. _Titan-_ and _Ganymede-_class cruisers. Escort carriers, frigates, and missile destroyers joined by heavy fighter-bombers. He was staring at a particular _Ganymede-_class, the hull code obscured by the stern of another cruiser, moving into position with its four main turrets blasting a slow barrage at the mobile armor. It dove rapidly out of position, than rose again directly before it along the ship's more vulnerable Z-axis. Beam gatling fire raked the bridge for a few scream-filled seconds, punching out unrealistically large holes, before the whole command tower exploded in a fireball.

Then Walker woke up. He was lying in his work uniform, back in the empty barracks in the Military Quarter. He'd worked a 16-hour-shift before a security detail nonchalantly took him from Chief Null and shoved him onto the least safe utility helicopter in Earth Sphere. It was cold in his room, but he was still sweating a good deal.

_Chrysanthemum—greater mass for armor protection and power generation. _He closed his eyes and pictured the mobile armor, by choice this time, sitting in its hangar. Turning the situation over in his head, he focused on everything he'd seen in the last few dozens of hours—it was hard to call them days, given his schedule—and nodded once before lying back down in bed.

**II**

In Colorado Springs, Squadron Commander Sebastian Krist was enjoying a cup of coffee and the nicotine from a realistically-modeled electric cigar, part of his family-ordered regimen to free himself of the particular habit. It was a temperate autumn day, Pikes Peak rising from a thin morning fog. The mountain formed the frontier of the Republic of Utah's military forces during the Colorado Campaign, the furthest their military forces had ever advanced, occupying three-fourths of Colorado, before their repulsion by OZ. Krist had been pleased when the whole of the 1st Company of the 13th Guards Medal of Heroism Ground Division had been airlifted from southeast Asia for the Continental American Military District for maneuvers and refit from stocks seized by the Utahans. The climate was more to his liking as a heatwave passed through Singapore and Malaysia in mid-September.

Then, while sitting at an outdoor restaurant on the grounds of the shuttered Alliance Air Force Academy, not far from the modernist, angular cadet chapel, an officer cadet in uniform stopped around three meters behind him before taking a shot at both him and Second Lieutenant Mieser, a newcomer temporarily transferred to the 13th Guards Division's Engineering Battalion.

Krist had his back towards the cadet—Mieser, young man that he was, was half-way out of his seat when Krist realized something was wrong. He did what came natural: between the first and second gunshots, Krist threw his chair backwards and fell to the ground, rolled over, and tackled the cadet by the legs to disarm him.

"Call the MP_s_!" Mieser shouted at a passerby while Krist, much larger than his would-be assassin, rose to his feet and began pummeling him, scraping his white trousers against the pavement.

The cadet wasn't a cadet at all—he was too old, as they learned once the arriving military police confirmed his identity by means of a mouth swab, and had actually been a second lieutenant in the Alliance Army, serving in a mechanized infantry unit based out of the now-shuttered Fort Carson. Even after Krist gave him two black eyes and a broken lip for his trouble, the military police detail further confirmed he hadn't been a cadet since AC 193.

The MP first lieutenant, in an OZ infantry service uniform with a while helmet and belt over her hunter greens, shared her immediate findings. "Our lieutenant here was part of a division that peaceably laid down its arms back in May."

"Peaceably?" Krist asked incredulously, rubbing his blood-stained white gloves together.

She nodded, presenting the assassin's double-action pocket pistol to Mieser for inspection, an antique by military standards. "He was the exception. His brother served aboard the light cruiser _Baltimore _which as destroyed during launch, and his sisters were both medics in the Hundred-Thirtieth Infantry Division, most of which was wiped out the First Battle of Denver." She tapped the digital notebook she was holding with her thumb, changing the screen. "Father was a major in the Alliance Army Mobile Suit Troops at New Edwards Air Force Base," she explained, sounding impressed.

"He knows we have a system for ex-Alliance troops to disarm, right?" Gunther asked while looking own the pistol's sights, trying not to sound sarcastic as the assassin, handcuffed, was picked up off the payment.

"Really, sirs, the only thing that surprises me is that this sort of thing doesn't happen more often," she explained. "Two-thirds of the Alliance Armed Forces and paramilitary troops, twenty_ million _total, were forcefully disbanded during the Revolutions. Only a forth of that, I'm told, defected to OZ. But I've only heard about sixty thousand being killed in combat, if that. Those who didn't peaceably surrender or claim asylum are sitting in military relocation camps or in national prison systems."

"Probably closer to seventy thousand," Krist mumbled under his breath.

"What I'm suggesting, Squadron Commander, that's a lot of angry people from the losing side just left to their own devices." She glanced over her shoulder at another helmet-wearing military policeman. "Sergeant, where was that assassination attempt last month? Moscow?"

"I think it was in Zelenograd, ma'am."

"In Zelenograd, the daughter of a cabinet minister, Foreign Ministry I believe, took a shot at a lieutenant colonel during a meeting of the Romefeller Foundation's technology subcommittee. They took her alive, but she's been on a hunger strike since then," she explained, taking back the weapon.

"I hadn't heard of that," Gunther questioned.

"Well, it's not really a fact that the U.N.O. or the Romefeller Foundation are anxious to advertise." She paused and her face contorted slightly, as if regretting what she'd just revealed, before turning to normal. "They're all maniacs, anyway. _I _was an Alliance Army MP before the Revolutions, we all were. You don't see us throwing bombs at motorcades."

"Thank you for that, by the way," Gunther added quickly.

"Investigations of this sort are really is the Military Commissariat's area, but they're short-handed as it is," Krist told Gunther calmly as the military police led the assassin off. "Wait a minute."

"We'll need to report this back at the company headquarters sir," Gunther pointed out.

"I said wait a damn minute," he growled before turning to the assassin. "I want to speak to him first."

Obediently, the two military policemen led the battered youth back to the ranking officer. "I'm Squadron Commander Krist. Do you have a name, son?"

"You killed them all!" he screamed, jerking towards Krist only to be held back by the MP_s._ "You son of a bitch, you killed my whole family!"

"Yes, yes, metaphorically that _may_ be the case," Krist said. "Do you have a name, boy?"

The assassin growled and hissed before the MP to his right calmly raised his free hand and delivered a swift chop to his shoulder just behind the neck, causing him to sputter for a moment, then drool and go silent.

Heaving a tired sigh, Krist adjusted his sunglasses and turned back to Gunther as he took off his bloody gloves. "I keep telling myself, one day, the intellectual approach will work. I'm still waiting for that day."

**III**

Chief Null found Walker in the office overlooking the main dock, the EA-01MA1 visible through the window that made up one of the four walls, though the former-flight lieutenant was staring at a display monitor showing multiple exploded cross sections of the mobile armor body. With bags under his eyes, he didn't acknowledge Null entering.

"Good morning, Walker."

Null waited briefly. Still no acknowledgement. "What's on the agenda today?" he asked.

"Still looking at the power distribution to the beam cannons. If the pilot used all weapons simultaneously, she'd trigger the emergency breaker."

"The captain really wouldn't like that," Null acknowledged helpfully.

Walker took out a plastic stylus and drew a number of red circles on a particular diagram, scribbling some barely legible notes. The technical chief sauntered up to him and stared at the markings being made before giving Walker a friendly pat on the back. Abruptly, Walker gave a spastic twitch and slipped on the stylus, leaving a long streak across a schematic page. Walker twitched a few more seconds before turning the stylus in his fingers and clicking the other end, undoing the marking. He said nothing to Null.

"Walker, are you…you know, I don't think these work hours are working for you."

"I see," he mumbled.

"No, I mean…maybe you should take a break, I think…" Null muttered, carefully pulling Walker way from the station. He just stood their limply, his eyes still staring at the schematics.

"Why don't…well, I can't offer you a day off, I think only the major could do that, but why don't you take a proper break. Are you hungry? No, wait, if you've still been eating those ration bars, that's not helping. Maybe I can get you some better food, though really, the rationing is…" he trailed off. "Okay, I doubt you care about our problems. Wait, here, how about this. Wait right here!" he instructed him, before taking off out of the office.

Walker barely moved when Null returned energetically holding a backpack. "You know, it occurred to me that, since they have you on a media blackout and you can't write letters or do anything that isn't tedium personified, why don't you…here, I brought up some books."

He reached into his backpack, fished about, and produced a warn-out paperback with a white cover, which he held in front of Walker until he limply took it and squinted at the cover.

"The One Year War'," he read out loud, his eyes turning back to Null.

"Okay, I know what you're thinking. I know it's manga but you're…what? Twenty five?"

"I'm nineteen," Walker replied.

"Oh, wow, you really look awful. Okay, you're nineteen. Lots of nineteen-year-olds read this. Especially those who don't have any money because it's basically free," he admitted. "Second, it's completely fictional, and surprising well written. I'm guessing you haven't read any Colonial authors, have you?"

"I haven't" he admitted.

"Well, this is a great place to start. Really, you need to read regularly, otherwise your brain will…rot or something," Null muttered before chuckling. "My dad, God rest his soul…he used to say 'Don't bother reading anything you can't use', and he was a lunatic towards the end. He was a mobile suit engineer as well, so…there you go."

He took a last look at the paperback before giving it to Walker and swinging the backpack over his shoulder. "I'm sorry, it's really the best I could do on short notice."

"Thank you?" Walker asked, sounding very unsure.

"What did you do for fun when you were a kid? I mean, besides mechanical work."

"I…I didn't experiment as much with mechanics as you might think," he admitted reluctantly. "I liked to write."

"Poetry?"

Walker summoned the energy to give him an unmistakable look of disapproval.

"No, probably not," Null mumbled.

**III**

"So, this is the most recent prisoner they've taken, the flight lieutenant?" Lieutenant Colonel Armonia asked, still wearing her black normal suit.

"Yes, Lady Soris," Squadron Commander Sun explained. "A former-engineering officer from the Seventh Division," he said while tapping the image that appeared on the display counter, expanding it. Walker's service photograph, taken that summer.

"I know him."

"You do?"

She shook her head. "Not particularly well, but he was a staff officer in Nairobi. Actually, he might have been a pilot back then as well. He doesn't leave much of an impression, does he? And what does the Military Commissariat have to say about him?"

Dr. Arai, in a white coat, appeared. "They were kind enough to make his files available for medical staff, but they're not going to tell you what I didn't already: Walker was posted for active duty after a short working vacation."

"And what warranted the pleasure of a working vacation?" Soris jeered.

"He was previously under command of Lieutenant Colonel Zechs Merquise. He had a 'psychological occurrence' in the week following news of his appearance in Outer Space, under the alias Millardo Peacecraft."

"It's the other way around," she interrupted her.

"Excuse me, Colonel?"

"Zechs Merquise is an alias belonging to Peacecraft, not the other way around." Soris crossed her legs, her normal suit squeaking loudly. "There's no benefit to sustaining this ridiculous mythology."

Dr. Arai didn't respond immediately. "I see, Colonel."

"What I'm wondering is why dear Marcus hasn't saw fit to share news of Walker's captivity with anyone else. We've placed high priority on any officers taken alive in the field from the Mobile Suit Troops."

"Maybe he's embarrassed," a new voice said, and Dr. Arai turned to see Flight Officer Luna Armonia having snuck up behind her, barely containing her surprise.

"Maybe Lieutenant Colonel North has a good reason," she offered in turn.

"I'm sure he does. Everyone always has a good reason," Soris muttered rhetorically before speaking up. "The first order of business, I think, is to confirm Oswald Walker is even still alive."

"Could we just ask Colonel North how he…?" Dr. Arai began, before the colonel interrupted her.

"Luna, could you make some basic arrangements? We'll have it done with someone reliable, like Walker's giant of a second-in-command."

"Flight Officer Kaneshiro."

Soris nodded. "Nothing too elaborate, the bare minimum for a proof-of-life. We're still fighting an operation here, and it's supposed to be over before we have to negotiate some sort of prisoner transfer."

"Understood," Luna replied.

"Dr. Arai, since you'd met Walker, and you're not actively being shot at, you'll facilitate that too." She turned slightly in her folding chair. "Sun, you were correct to bring this to my attention."

"Yes ma'am. Is this going to be a problem, ma'am?" Squadron Commander Sun asked reluctantly.

"Sun, you're a good soldier and a good officer. Believe it or not, I appreciate that. My disagreements with Lieutenant Colonel North are _not _indicative of some breakdown in the field command structure. They're just _disagreements. _And there's plenty we do agree on, frankly."

"Like what?" Sun asked exasperatedly.

"Like keep that Gundam pilot, Heero Yuy, the hell away from Operation 'Citadel', for starters. Or his friend, Trowa Barton."

Sun nodded in agreement and saluted before departing. Soris put her gloved hands behind her head and arched her back, stretching like a cat. "How did Walker get captured in the first place?"

"All we know was that it wasn't in combat. His mobile suit's marked as undamaged in the Seventh Division's inventory and is being used by Kaneshiro," Luna explained.

"However it happened, he must feel very stupid right now."

**IV**

At a closed session of the World Assembly of the United Nations Organization, Earth's representatives watched the holographic presentation made by the Romefeller Foundation of OZ's latest technological marvel: the mobile doll combat unit. An entire division was undergoing live-fire trials in the Lunar Military District, an impressive sight.

"OZ's Taurus Troops already proved that the mobile doll was a practical combat platform, both effective at neutralizing targets and reducing casualties. The new Virgo Troops, when fielded, will make it possible to implement mobile dolls in multiple campaigns on worldwide. Though, as already established, they won't participate in the Noventan campaign."

The Secretary-General leaned back in her seat at the speaker's podium watching the holographic visuals of the whole unit moving in formation. "Well, they certainly look impressive, but can they actually be deployed? And that quickly?"

"The infrastructure for terrestrial combat is already in place: OZ has already developed a specialized extraterrestrial-to-terrestrial deployment system, an update on the carrier design used by Leo Troops in Outer Space," the Foundation envoy explained. "Sirs, we can sit here all day and debate the semantics, but this _is _the wave of the future. This body has asked OZ of a great many things: overthrow the tyranny of the United Earth Sphere Alliance. Quell the resulting regional and Colonial conflicts. Bring both justice and order to Earth Sphere. All while minimizing casualties and repelling the Gundam terrorists and their backers from the Colony Liberation Organization."

"With our medical and logistical assistance," a speaker in attendance added.

"Of course, without the United Nations, the innocent civilian casualties would have been a magnitude higher." As difficult as it was to calculate such things, this seemed like an unassailable truth: in the Before Colony period, and even the decades of warfare that led to the formation of the Alliance, the human price of war was measured in the hundreds of thousands or the millions in any sort of global conflict.

The hologram vanished and the chamber lit up again, with the envoy replacing his glasses. "This is all an unquestionably tall order. When that goal was set, it was understood that technological innovation would make it reachable. This is that technology. The mobile doll is one crucial part of making this possible. OZ may be willing to bleed and die for your policies, for your democracies, but they can only bleed so much. So the decision becomes how you'll use this technology."

"Stop beating around the bush," the Secretary-General muttered angrily.

Under Secretary-General Perry spoke up, sitting adjacent to the body's elected leader. "What my colleague is trying to say is we shouldn't dance around the obvious. This body can make military policy, but it can't violate the inherent sovereignty of its member states," he said, rising to his feet. "But there is an alternative. Nations still maintain the right of cooperation, and they maintain the right of self-defense. The Gundams are still a threat, even if we aren't reminded of the fact. Our formal political posture needs to be conducted with the understanding that wars on _Earth _threaten Earth as a _whole_, thanks to the Gundams. I wish we could come to some sort of conciliatory settlement with the Colony Liberation Organization, I doubt Heero Yuy wanted to see his legacy just a tool for terrorism."

"But until then, we need to present a unified position. I will not have this body brushed aside as a mere forum for political disputes," the Secretary-General added abruptly. Perry obediently sat down. "My colleague is correct: conflict on Earth threatens the entire Earth Sphere's standing. This can't be tolerated anymore. OZ is a military force, not a parliament or a political council. Thankfully, OZ is cognizant of the fact. And I think it's time we gave them some concrete direction towards the future."

The Foundation envoy nodded triumphantly. "And for once, Your Honor, I agree with you entirely."

**V**

Holding his leather helmet under one arm, Flight Officer William O'Brian took the cracked path up to the Headquarters Building at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. Plumes of smoke were still rising over the shattered building, and along the way he kicked what he thought was a part of an aircraft turbofan engine the size of a man's fist out of his way.

Wright-Patterson AFB in the State of Ohio, wedged between the competing federations of the Christian States and Federal States of America, had mutinied abruptly in August just as combat in Utah was reaching its most feverish. O'Brien had been reassigned into a provisional unit in the Eastern American air Army to help shore up strength of the local peacekeepers and keep either side from gaining too much of an advantage over the other.

He took a look into the ruined husk of a building, severely damaged both by recent fighting and then before that during Operation 'Daybreak' when the Special Mobile Suit Troops Airborne Division destroyed a substantial portion of the Alliance Air Force on-site before the later surrendered. The entrance to the building reminded him of a gaping maw, the interior too dim to be seen clearly.

"Do you think they'll rebuild it?" asked F/O Yao, a tall, thin pilot still wearing his helmet and goggles, coming along the same path.

"I'd have to think so. If not OZ, the Americans." He turned away from the building entrance. "Though I guess it depends on who gets Ohio at the end of the day. The Federals have a good claim, but it sounds like the Christians would win the election if it were held tomorrow."

"I can see why they're pushing for U.N.O. fact-finding mission and arbitration in that case," Yao muttered. "They want to buy time."

"'Tough love', that's what I've heard it called. The Federals have every reason to believe that their way of life is better for Ohio, and they're prepared to fight for the chance to prove it." He turned to Yao. "I really don't know what the hell the difference is. They speak the same language, use the same money, pray to the same God."

"It's not clear to me either," Yao admitted. "So much for our sense of duty."

"This is a temporary reassignment. I didn't spend three weeks staring at books about the history of the Rocky Mountains just to be sent to Dayton, Ohio," O'Brien announced stubbornly. "Times like this, I wish I was still in the Special Recon Battalion."

Yao was about to reply when the faint _thump-thump_ of cannon-fire cut him off. Both men looked over their shoulders, through the landscape of cratered jet aircraft of all sizes, to the lightly-burnt tree line on the edge of the base grounds. Another rumble, and a flock of birds rapidly ascended, followed by more thumping.

"More artillery?"

"No, not artillery," O'Brien told him, taking out a small pair of binoculars and focusing just above the tree line. "It's a Leo."

"One of ours? What color is it?"

Even a mobile suit at that distance, given the fairly weak magnification of the binoculars, was difficult to make out, and though its square-off shoulders and boxy head made it easy for O'Brien to identify, its actual color scheme was still blurry and inscrutable, much less any distinctive unit markings or insignia.

"I'm not worried about the color, so much as the fact that it's shooting at another one," he said, handing over the binoculars. "Shit, the partisans must have gotten their hands on something left by an Alliance arsenal. I heard exactly this happened in East Haiti last week."

Taking them himself, Yao stared through and spotted two distinct sets of flashes: muzzle fire from 105 mm autocannons, most likely. Belated, alarm sirens started to blare, one by one, across the battered installation and the two men turned to run down the broken pathway away from the building. "Well, it's just Leos, right?"

"Today it's just two Leos," O'Brien countered. "What if, next month, it's the whole country? Then where will _we _be?"

**VI**

"Well, what did you think?"

Tubarov Villemont was grinning discernably under his harsh wrinkles, from the walkway that crossed part of the Marius Crater Mobile Suit Factory's north assembly floor, below and outside Marius City proper. Beneath his feet, six OZ-02MD 'Virgo' mobile dolls stood at approximately 80% completion, unarmed and missing almost all their armor plating, but still clearly recognizable.

"So this is where all that Gundanium went," Lieutenant Colonel Sedici shouted back, adjusting his white worksite helmet. "I thought the numbers had to be wrong."

"Of course you would!" Tubarov gloated proudly. "My mobile dolls aren't just superior fighting machines, they're cost-effective and have a very favorable production time, considering their weight and firepower. We'll soon be building these faster than the Taurus lines at Corsica or Omsk!" he explained, while strolling along the walkway.

"It did seem like too much to just to be spare parts for the Project Bliznets," he mumbled almost inaudibly.

Tubarov frowned—this wasn't the reaction he'd been expecting. "You're not impressed?"

Sedici "I'm very impressed. How's their extraterrestrial combat maneuverability? I don't see vernier thrusters on these units."

"They haven't been installed on these noes yet, but that's not their strong point," Tubarov conceded. "So much of the power generated is going to the active defense system and the beam canon's capacitors, and the original proposal calling for a fuel tank under the left shoulder housing was scrapped. The magnetic defensor discs caused serious malfunctions with the fuel pump every time they activated, including backflow."

"I've already got an improved model on the drawing board, provided the General Staff approves it, and the Foundation funds the crash development costs." He grasped the handrails tightly and leaned over for a better look. "But these will be very serviceable in terrestrial combat on _Earth_. Even with the Gundanium construction, we had to make some sacrifices to maintain airdrop deployment capability comparable to the Leo."

Tubarov squinted and leaned forward a little further. "It's the same problem we had twenty years ago in the original design bureau. Firepower, mobility, affordability—you can only have two of three."

Sedici stared at the much older man leaning over the railing, trying to get a better look at his own technological masterpiece. Luna's low gravity meant that even if Tubarov were to fall over the edge, and missed his chance to grab hold with his hands, his swift tumble to the assembly floor would probably not do much more than break his legs and ankles and leave him infirm for several weeks.

"You used the technology from the tandem Gundam units?" he asked, looking away from Tubarov and back down at the assembly floor.

"Hardly the whole story. Both I and Une's pets went with the existing active defense technology from Eurasia and the beam cannon tech from the Taurus development. They have good sense, I'll give them that, just not enough of it. You can't conquer countries with Gundams, you conquer them with armies—you'd think they would've figured that out by now."

"Though from what I've seen about the alloys you're using, they're not going to be as tough as the Gundams."

"I wouldn't have given them planet defensors otherwise. I've always preferred active to passive defense," Tubarov announced confidently. "And the limits of the strategic reserve of Gundamnium alloy demanded we use conventional materials. The Colony Liberation Organization only built five Gundams in twenty years, and they didn't never succeeded in overthrowing Alliance rule in the meantime."

He crossed his arms and stood, feet apart, triumphantly. "That's the problem with those who treat weapons as a works of art or idols to their own religion. They never see the big picture: weapons are a tool of political policy, whatever it may be."

"And without pilots, your mobile dolls are just more obediently tools of policy?" Sedici asked, his prominent jaw holding back a smirk.

"The most obedient tools, even if they aren't the most effective for the time being," Tubarov assured him. "This line of work is all about trade-offs."

**VII**

"Where's Lieutenant Walker?"

Chief Null had not been expected Major Khattāb in today and immediately panicked, almost falling out of his chair at his desk at the far end of the dock. "Major, is something wrong? Why are you here?"

"Nothing's wrong," he assured the other. "If anything, Chrysanthemum seems to be coming together quite well," he said. Null just barely noticed his mouth twitch, as though he'd held back his expression from changing when he looked up at the mobile armor. "Where's Lieutenant Walker?'

"I…gave him a few hours off. All he does it work and sleep, and he barely does the later, so I thought…you know, I'll just go get him and…"

"Chief, its fine. I just wanted to see how he was holding up. Whether he's nineteen or ninety, the work schedule we have him on will destroy his health, believe me," he explained pointedly. "It may not be torture, but it's hardly a reasonable captivity."

Chief Null nodded. "Apparently, Captain Fielding says it's perfectly legal and safe, and Walker hasn't complained." He had a thought. "Maybe his plan is to work himself into a heart attack and get out of captivity that way."

"How?" Khattāb asked incredulously.

"Just a thought," Null admitted.

"Well, if he's not asleep, I'll check up on him…I doubt I'll have many opportunities once OZ's forward units enter the vicinity, and I'd rather not leave it up to Fielding. And at that point, Captain Soletta's life will be in Walker's hands, and not the other way around."

"You mean the mobile armor? We're running constant inspections of it, if you're worried…"

"Oh, I doubt Walker would try something so stupidly obvious as sabotage," Khattāb said with a sigh.

"Really, Major?"

"I don't think it's in his character. All these young knights from OZ, believe it or not, but that knighthood means something to them. It's all they have otherwise, for those who came from practically nothing." Khattāb sat down on the desk and put his hands together. "At least, that's what Fielding's interviews with the other prisoners have suggested. Even if that weren't true, every moment he spends working he's being monitored."

Khattāb turned to him and took out a small electronic device out of his pocket. "I thought I'd give him this to keep his sanity," he said, showing the technician the digital reader, a small tablet computer not much larger than a paperback intended to take the place of an actual book. "See if he reads any magazines or the like."

"Oh, I tried that too."

After leaving Null, he found Walker sitting in a folding chair by an ordnance crane, reading through a paperback, which he put away as soon as he spotted Khattāb leisurely approaching.

"I hope I'm not disrupting you," Khattāb said with a wide, friendly smile.

Walker stared at him, bags under his eyes. "Compared to past cases, no."

"Chief Null mentioned you were taking a break, I thought you might appreciate some more reading material, in a civilized medium," he said, holding the reader at him. "I get so many gift cards every year around Christmas for this thing and never use them."

Walker stared suspiciously at the small consumer electronic. "So this isn't a bug?"

"No. I don't think so, I mean. I'm guessing they've already bugged you anyway, somehow. Check the stitching in your clothes," he suggested.

Walker gave him an unimpressed look before taking the reader. "Can I get _The One Year War_ on this?"

Khattāb was only vaguely familiar with the name. "Sure. Though you struck me more of a news magazine kind of guy."

"What about _La Alba Nero_?"

"Probably not," Khattāb admitted.

Walker put the reader on the floor next to his chair and resumed reading.

"You seem entranced."

Walker picked the paperback volume up, revealing its brightly colored cover, and gave Khattāb an annoyed look. "I'm at the point where they've explained how Zion secured a strategic advantage by fielding mobile suits before their opposition on Earth did."

"_Ji-on_," Null offered helpfully from behind Khattāb. "It's pronounced 'Zeon', not like the Jewish political movement. Keep reading, the plot is just about to really pick up," he said, before smiling nervously at the major.

"Well, you seem to be having a little fun here, my work is done," Khattāb told Walker cheerily, who just gave a grunt in response and kept reading. "Make sure he doesn't skip any more breaks, will you Chief?"

"Not a problem, Major," he said with a big grin as the other left down the walkway. Turning back to Walker, he kept the grin on his face. "See, they're not so bad! Maybe I was exaggerating a little earlier."

"Could you get me a charger for the reader?" Walker asked, not looking up.

"Of course, you'd need one wouldn't you?" Null replied, putting his hand on his forehead. "I've got a spare you can use."

**VIII**

Flight Officer Kaneshiro had been prepared to do some of her best groveling, which came as a shock to Squadron Commander Ogasawara when she encountered her personally aboard the OZSS _Asiana_.

In her large, form-fitting normal suit, the equally large Kaneshiro did her best kowtow in front of Ogasawara and F/O Tsujimoto in the First Recon Battalion's ready room.

"Please! I'm beggin' ya, Ogasawara-_shousa_! I know you don't like Walker-_tai-i_, but we need him! You gotta' have some pull with the Commissariat, right?" she pleaded loudly in Japanese with strong Okinawan accent, looking up at them with large, expressive eyes.

Both other women felt extremely uncomfortable by the display, and the squadron commander spoke first. "Please, get up, Kanna-_kun_. And just call me Emi," she hurriedly told her in Japanese, looking around once more to make sure the ready room was otherwise empty.

"So you'll help?" Kanna's large, violet eyes twinkled a little.

"Yes, I promise, just get up," Emi hissed.

Kanna immediately stood up. "Wow, that's a relief. Thank you, Emi-_san_. To tell you the truth, me and the guys put our heads together for a whole day, and this was the best we could come up with."

Nabiki's expression quickly turned from disgust mixed with discomfort to disgust mixed with skepticism, as the much larger woman seemed to abandon all pretense of emotional pleading and stretched her arms over her head, easily reaching the ceiling. She said nothing otherwise.

"Really, Kanna-kun? The best thing you came up with was begging on your knees?" Emi asked, her eyes still wide open.

"I'm not too proud to beg for something if it's worth it," Kanna explained nonchalantly. "So, what're you gonna' do, Emi-san?"

Emi stared at the larger woman for a few more seconds, saying nothing, before finally blinking her eyes. "To be totally honest, I don't have a great deal of pull with the Military Commissariat and higher officers don't think that highly of me either. Maybe I could speak to the CAST officers instead," she offered warily, stroking her chin with a single nail.

"Whatever it takes, ma'am!"

"When…did you even get aboard CVA-45 anyway? I thought your unit was on the _Callisto_."

"Actually, we're just covering the carrier for the time being while it repositions," Kanna explained quickly. _Tell them just what the Sun Queen told you to say. _

"Really? That's quite a coincidence," Nabiki suggested.

"I'll speak to someone in CAST," Emi announced equally loudly, cutting her off. "I trust them more than the Commissariat's officers anyway."

"This doesn't strike you as strange?" Nabiki asked Emi.

"What's strange?" Kanna asked quickly nonetheless.

Nabiki turned to her. "That Colonel North hasn't said anything about this. Walker was part of his forces, wasn't he?"

Both women turned to Kanna who stood, wide-eyed and silent.

"Did you speak to anyone besides Colonel North about this before coming to us?" Emi asked.

"I...yes, I asked a pilot I knew on the _Sarajevo_. She actually told me to come to you, that the First Recon Battalion knew about this sort of thing." She frowned again. "Does that matter?"

"Probably not. In the meantime, Kanna, I'll need a favor from you."

Kanna's eyes grew wide in surprise again. "Favor?"

"Do you remember the Fortieth Division in Utah?"

"Of course," she said, half-lying. It hadn't been particularly memorable.

**IX**

Walker was lying in his room in the barracks in the Military Quarter after another sixteen hour shift. He'd finished the first volume of _The One Year War_ and had, back in the hangar, downloaded the second volume onto the reader he'd been given to preoccupy himself before the unsafe helicopter ride back.

As expected, it was a dystopian war story, though not the one he anticipated: a conflict waged between an uncaring, incompetent government on Earth and a savage, even genocidal secessionist Colonial state on the far side of Luna. Not at all what Walker had expected from a mainstream Colonial author. Otherwise, it had the trappings of the early years of the Alliance blockade, with combat fought with mobile suits, space cruisers, and missile barrages.

A particular part of the story stood out in his mind, an event alluded to in a short set of panels in a chapter in the first half of the volume: the use of a deorbited space colony as a weapon of mass destruction, the so-called 'colony drop' tactic. The secessionist government, with limited access to nuclear weapons, had done this in an attempt to destroy the military command center on Earth itself. Though they'd missed, the human and environmental cost of the attack was incalculable.

Walker didn't really read military fiction. In fact, before joining the Specials, he didn't often read about or watch video of the Alliance military, despite his late father's career. That sort of thing disturbed his mother profoundly. He read newspapers and magazine clippings at school, but that was about it. It was rather odd that both he and Aretha went into the military, in retrospect.

He thought about that scaled model of a mobile suit Kanna had brought back as a gift from Okinawa. It was still sitting, runners sealed in plastic bags, on a shelf with the rest of his possessions. _I told myself I'd build it in Outer Space, if only for the novelty of putting together a plastic model in low gravity, _he thought with a smile. The smile vanished a few seconds later. _I'm still a prisoner-of-war, maybe I should keep that in mind. _

Of course, since attending Lake Victory, he'd read hundreds, even thousands, of political and historical texts, from both the Before and After Colony eras. Reading was easy, comprehension was the difficult part. He'd done a lot of growing in those four years, but wondered just how much of it he'd grasped.

_All things considered, I'm lucky_, he thought, remembered what Captain Fielding and all of his books had said to him just days earlier. "Clearing the air," he had called it. They hadn't spoken again, despite his suggestion that they would.

He thought about all those books, some of which Walker had probably read as well. Books about war, about being a prisoner-of-war, or even just about the mobilization of men, and sometimes women, to be sent to the front to die.

He rolled over onto his back and stared at the bleached ceiling above him. _Two-hundred years ago, military life was a different. Of course, some things didn't change that much. Fundamentally, it's still a matter of taking a person and making them capable of fighting and killing, of completing an assignment while risking injury or death. _

He sighed. _But our approach has changed. We're supposed to be more efficient. Centuries ago, military life was full of contradictions, by design. You would take a mobilized youth, you would break them. Make them run through mud, then punish them for getting their boots dirty. Break their equipment, then tell them it's their own fault. In a sense, it's to make them utterly dependent on the system they are part of. Make them utterly dependent on their comrades, then play them off one another. Build trust and destroy it by forcing them to betray each other. Do it enough and it'll work. If it doesn't, you're not doing it enough._

_It was effective, but stupid. Creating problems simply to force someone to work out a solution. Effective, but arbitrary. That was the mantra. Repeat it enough, and it'll become true. _

_This is more or less how things worked for hundreds, even thousands, of years. But people have changed in a thousand years. Social integration is higher than any point in human history. Fundamentally, soldiers and officers are humans, and for the first time, one human was in contact with almost every other human in Earth Sphere. It's not that humans are smarter, though they probably are—they are just less tolerant of stupidity. The walls between civilian and military life are broken down. Now, armies are run like factories. A soldier is a worker, who has a specific task, who is trained to complete it. If something goes wrong, determine the cause and correct it. Do not arbitrarily create problems to 'build character'. Determine who is responsible instead of arbitrarily punishing people. Abandon the useless obsession with making people into an 'example'. If it is the fault of the worker, take action. If it is not their fault, do not needlessly punish them._

_But doesn't that approach weaken the troops as a whole? Yes, probably. Then why are we limited to just punishing them? Why don't we just kill soldiers for failure, like they did in antiquity? Those warriors conquered entire continents with nothing but blades and spears on horseback. Wasn't that more effective? Why aren't we killing them in the name of effectiveness? _

He already knew this answer, at least the one he'd been taught to believe. _Rational behavior: it's called that for a reason._

_ Ultimately, the political leadership doesn't care about the 'fighting spirit' or the 'rugged individualism'. They are not warriors, they are tools of political policy. _

_Of course, many things are the same. Soldiers still fight among their own for stupid, petty reasons. Troops in the field do not advertise weakness, but in truth, nowhere do people advertise weakness willingly. But the armed forces of the United Earth Sphere Alliance were still very different. It started as an effort to prevent social disorders resulting from traumatic experiences endured by young people returning to society and sexual violence experienced by enlisted women, and turned into a revolutionary change for the profession of 'soldiering' from the top-down, for the first time in recent history. The physical tools—bayonets, rifles, grenades, rockets—are the same. But the person who carries them is like nothing ever seen before. _

Walker remembered the first time he'd seen someone, physically, destroyed. It was just a few weeks before he met Broden for the first time, during a revolt by Turkish nationalists against the Alliance government in West Kurdistan. During the fighting, a captured missile battery destroyed the building a grenadier who was assigned to him was trying to retrieve a wounded comrade from. She, and the infantryman she was dragging, were blown to pieces by debris from the building in a revolting, bloody mess. Some of what was left on them had even gotten on his face and uniform. He'd known both of them since the revolt began, and worked with them on a daily basis. This was a textbook case of an event that could lead to post-traumatic stress in an inexperienced cadet. He reported it to a counselor in the week that followed, still in shock. The counselor immediately got the point, and arranged for Walker's commanding officer to speak with him on the matter.

Then a week passed. And another week. Soon, a month. After his time in Japan, Walker was shuffled about in the Special Mobile Suit Troops, his posting changing over and over until he settled on the Middle Eastern Air Army. Then, the counselor wrote him a letter on the matter, and Walker was shocked to realize he'd completely forgotten about the incident. Being reminded of it, he didn't even feel as though it had happened to him. His daily concerns in the Special Troops took priority, and he'd simply dismissed the incident.

While there were as many different reactions as there were different minds in the military, this was the sort of thing that, if improperly dealt with, could haunt someone for the rest of their life. But for Walker, the whole event seemed unfortunate but incidental.

_At Lake Victoria, they told me—and I believed that—I had a sharp mind, but not a strong one. That I had to be careful that a traumatic event could turn me from an asset to a liability. But it never seemed to happen. I never suffered a cripple traumatic event until…_

As thought to prove him wrong, Gundam-05 suddenly appeared in his mind, Corsica burning behind it. Walker jerked upright, his body now tense. It seemed like he did have some lingering trauma, at least from that first encounter with a Gundam. But even being refuted and left sweating and shaking, he felt vindicated: of course the incident was still with him, the Gundams, at least then, were to be feared. He wasn't lost in his own delusions, he was still human.

_What even happened to Unit Zero-Five? _He didn't know. He'd heard it had appeared in Southeast Asia around the time the remaining Gundams were 'neutralized' on Earth, whatever that meant. Rolling his eyes, he lay back down in bed, the brief experience having tired him.

_I'm not a warrior, I'm a soldier—or more accurately, an officer and engineer. Those things are now different. Or am I just wrong again? Sitting here, a _guest_ of the Republic of Noventa, am I just deluding myself? I'm not traumatized from war, but when I close my eyes sometimes, I see the Gundam that killed me. I'm not like the fighting men and women of the past, but here I'm sitting in captivity as a prisoner-of-war. Am I actually so contradicted that I've fooled myself into thinking I'm internally consistent? _

His mind was starting to spin between what was actually right and what he believed he was merely telling himself was right, that he actually felt a little dizzy. Was this what happened to Zechs, what had driven him mad? He'd simply worn the clothes, the uniform of a warrior _or_ a soldier, as a disguise, using it as a tool for his own ambitions and interests—the Peacecraft monarchy. _I'm just someone from Ontario who doesn't have a family to avenge or a lineage to restore. Just a few years of what some would call 'brainwashing' at the hands of Treize Khushrenada. _

Yes, Treize Khushrenada.

That was what he had.

As though invigorated, he snapped out of bed, straightened out his borrowed working suit, and snatched the reader, yanking it from its power charger and tossing it aside. He then took the power adapter plugged into the wall, unplugged it, and began checking the information label stuck onto the side, with small writing indicator the input and output voltages and a warning to handle carefully.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author's Notes:<em>  
><strong>

_Another chapter with an uninspiring name, and a great deal of existential naval gazing. Hopefully, at least, it builds up Walker by revealing how he happens to see some of the world around him. I'm glad I was able to finish this chapter in at least a more timely fashion (it actually ended up being a good bit longer than I anticipated), even with a handful of delays. _

_In the Alliance-written future, Kurdistan is a thing-or it's two countries who are generally aligned with one another? I haven't decided for certain. In any case, some of the old animosities, for example, between people in Turkey and people in Kurdistan, survive to some form. Maybe that's a _Gundam 00 _reference?_

_On the subject of the Chrysanthemum mobile armor, if you Google search "REZEL FW+FA'" literally the first thing that comes up in the results is the stunning kitbash that served as inspiration for a GP03-inspired mobile armor unit, with a dash of ZZ Gundam (though the one in this story hasn't been painted blue). It might be useful since that's currently the only uniquely originally mobile weapon to appear in this story so far. _


	46. Scrutiny

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 46 – Scrutiny**

As he had the prior 'morning', Oswald Walker climbed off the least safe helicopter that landed a short distance away from the concrete doors leading into the navy dry dock. And just as before, a security detail led by an ex-Alliance sergeant stopped with him at the checkpoint and instructed him to empty his pockets. Today, were was a small divergence from the norm: Walker surrendered his digital reader and the associated charger, its long, thin cable wrapped around the small plastic box with a single safety sticker on the side opposite the prongs. The sergeant recognized both items immediately, but nonetheless looked surprised. The checkpoint shift had changed between his last departure and his current arrival.

"I have permission for both of those. Major Khattāb gave it me the reader, Chief Null gave me the char-…"

"Spare me your life story, please," he said, handing them back, looking less surprised and more annoyed as he took them back and slid them into separate pockets.

Walker was unfamiliar with the name 'Arroway' prior to his arrival on D-120. He knew that Eleanor Arroway was a senior admiral in the Alliance Space Navy and had not been present at the New Edwards war council. He assumed that Helena Arroway was related, somehow, to Eleanor Arroway and heard she was also an officer in the space navy, but that was it. Lieutenant Scott had said something about what not to bring up under any circumstances, but he was also the last person whose suggestions Walker wanted to take under advisement.

Soletta appeared before them, in her clean, form-fitting olive drab uniform, her long, wavy hair in stark contrast with her prim military appearance—only the Mobile Suit Troops officers took such care of their appearance. Walker couldn't tell if it was because she was the only woman he'd seen that week, or if he was just exhausted from working sixteen hours at a time, but she actually looked more attractive and even _disarming _compared to when they'd first met. She looked his age, approximately, and still had a sort of pleasant roundness to her features, and she looked as collected and composed as ever.

"Remember, burning up with hate," Null whispered to him through his teeth as he picked up a toolbox he'd obviously left by Walker on purpose.

"Flight Lieutenant."

"Yes Captain," he said, endeavoring to stand up straight and at attention for a change.

"Defense Minister Arroway will make her last inspection of the mobile armor before she departs with her fleet to the frontlines. It'll need to be presentable."

This confused Walker a bit at first. _Just think of it as though you're not a prisoner, but an Alliance engineering officer. You know, like you were in the past. _"Y-yes ma'am," he stammered out.

"Were there any new obstacles you encountered?"

"No, Captain."

"So you solved the problem with power output?"

"Yes I believe so," he said, truthfully.

"Good," she told him. She seemed to think on that word for a moment. "Thank you for your hard work."

He didn't know how to respond to that, so he didn't. A beeping came from one of her pockets and she excused herself quietly and took a mobile call in the corner. Feeling self-conscious, Walker smoothed out a few creases in his uniform before turning to a nearby ladder to a higher gantry.

"What the hell is 'presentable' supposed to mean for a mobile armor anyway?" Walker muttered under his breath. Chief Null was waiting atop the gantry and snickered at him.

"Well, you're the engineer, you tell me!" he told him with a smile, which after Walker gave him an intense stare. "Oh, I guess that was rude, huh? You see, it's a little ironic, because…"

"I got the joke, thank you," Walker snapped, a little louder this time.

**II**

"Pilot Officer Trowa Barton."

The statement, not very much a question, was posed by one of two white-helmet wearing Space Troops Military Policemen standing in front of the door to his quarters on _Barge_, each with a submachine gun slung over a shoulder.

"Yes," Barton said finally, keeping a neutral tone.

"Lieutenant Colonel North needs to speak with you now."

"The colonel's here on _Barge_?"

"Yes."

"And he sent two MP_s_?"

"It seems like it, sir," the much older man repeated.

Without further delay, Barton was led in the direction of the Overbridge to Major Bremer's office. Inside, Barton immediately noticed the space fortress's nominal commander standing to the side of his desk, hands together over a manila folder, while Colonel North, in his red-and-white uniform, sat behind in the chair behind it.

"Good morning, Mr. Barton."

"Is something wrong, sir?"

"Many things, we'll get to that. With my colleague, Lady Une, preoccupied on C-102, I wanted to take the opportunity to speak with her most valued pilot." He leaned forward, still speaking quickly. "You see, Mr. Barton, a funny thing happened to me on the way to meeting in L5-B-991. Well, not to me, but to a valued officer in my division, a Flight Lieutenant Oswald Walker."

"I've never heard of him."

"I don't expect you would have," North said, slowing down momentarily. "He was killed during the Gundam raid on Corsica Base months ago, then got better, but it's a long story. _Anyway_…"

He sped up again. "Walker gets to the meeting before me, and would you know it, everyone else, including the master aircrewman accompanying him, gets _killed. _In a very _permanent _way. It works out better for Oswald Walker, whom we have footage of being dragged from the meeting place and stuffed inside a short-range courier ship, courtesy of B-991's close-circuit television cameras. We even have video of the assailant, would you like to see?"

Again, another statement that wasn't a question. Bremer reached forward with a single paper-like sheet of digital film with a 6-second-long video clip playing on a loop, and put it on the desk in front of Barton, smoothing it out with his hands before standing back. Calmly looking over, Barton watched the video clip of an unconscious officer in uniform being dragged through a parking garage by a woman dressed entirely in black. She let him fall to the floor near a smart car, look directly into the camera overhead as though scrutinizing it, before opening the hatchback and gingerly throwing the officer in.

_The Barton Foundation—they're still doing this sort of thing. _He didn't recognize her though.

"Quite the inexpressive beauty, isn't she?" North asked, still not amused. "We got some great footage of her, including this sexy shot from the L3 student registry system of one of their recent graduates," he spat out as Bremer set down his whole folder loudly, opening it to the middle. Inside was a glossy dossier photo marked with the red emblem of the L3 University and College System, and a name clearly visible under it: Maya Barton.

_Looks like Dekim's kept himself busy. _

"Relative of yours, Mr. Barton?" North asked, his voice quiet and threatening. By now, Bremer had crossed his arms hostilely and was waiting directly behind North. "The student registry says she's a few years older than you, but there's a little similarity in appearance, I suppose."

This time, Barton responded. "That wouldn't be possible," he explained truthfully, but stopped short of elaborating why.

North seemed unconcerned. "Yes, we know that. I was actually considering sending your little team, Mr. Barton, on a mission to rescue Walker from L1-D-120, and see if Lady Une's favorite pilots were up for something a little more complicated than capturing a twenty-year-old restored museum piece. As interesting as that'd be to watch, I think such a mission would fall _woefully _short of its stated objective."

He paused for a moment before adding, "So you're off the hook."

Barton pushed the open folder aside slightly, looking more closely at the digital sheet, still playing its 6-second-long video on loop. North watched him for a few more seconds before standing up and slamming his hand down on the sheet.

"You're dismissed, Mr. Barton."

The pilot officer seemed to remember where he was, saluted quickly, and turned to leave. North circled the desk and watched him until one of the MP_s _closed the bulkhead door.

"And that's it?"

North nodded. "That's it. I've got something else in the works to help Walker, something less foolishly suicidal. All we've confirmed is that Nichol was right, and that Pilot Officer Barton isn't to be trusted. Until Une appreciates that fact, there's not much we can do about it. This is OZ—we can't just wire someone's mobile suit to explode because we don't trust them."

"A pity he's not a Gundam pilot," Bremer remarked dryly. "You've heard of the modifications made to the mobile suit flown by that captive, Yuy, the Mercurius?"

"Well, Nichol can't always be right. _Apparently._"

**III**

While Null was preoccupied trying to squash a newly-risen issue with Chrysanthemum's mobile suit core, Walker was left alone to continue his work on the two long-barreled beam cannons affixed starboard. By standing on the lower placed four-barrel beam gatling, he could easily reach into the final amplifying stage of the higher of the two long-barreled beam cannons. Reaching into an access panel, he felt blindly for the familiar round shape of the capacitor bank, then pulled the release lever next to it.

"Gah!" A sharp shock made his arm, and much of his body, twitch for a moment, and he almost lost his footing, which would have left him relying solely the support line he had affixed to the nearby mobile gantry to avoid the long fall to the dock floor below. Inspecting his hand, he instantly realized what had happened: he'd pulled at the conduits adjacent to the capacitor, themselves cylindrical but roughly the same size as the manual release lever, and gotten a nasty shock in the process—just enough to hurt and startle, but not enough to do him real harm—as he opened and closed his right hand repeatedly.

He found himself overcome by a feeling of familiarity that he couldn't quite put his finger on until someone familiar appeared in his mind: Maya Barton, in her shiny leather motorcycle suit, and the electrical dart-firing attachment on her semi-automatic pistol. Her image remained in his mind for a few seconds, cold, indifferent eyes and wavy hair. He took the moment shift his weight and sit safely atop the lower beam gatling.

_I should probably be angrier at her for putting me in this situation, but I'm not. _He held his right hand in his left, squeezing it through his work gloves. _But I'm not, and I know why. _

More memories, these ones grander: the interception, defeat and capture of XXXG-01D, Gundam-02. It was a simple favor bestowed on him by Maya Barton, the privilege of being one of a very small number of pilots in the Mobile Suit Troops to defeat and capture a Gundam. Zechs Merquise was one, when the first Gundam was intercepted over the J.A.P. in the Pacific Ocean. There were a few others, he was sure, but it remained an incredibly exclusive club, if one could call it that. He recalled his fairly unremarkable meeting with the machine's young pilot.

_By doing that, she had my unquestioned trust, no matter what I said. _He was so easily manipulated, yet he didn't feel the level of regret or remorse he thought he should have. He'd beaten a _Gundam_. He was incapable of seeing it as anything less than a grand victory, something he'd probably have given his life for if asked. He stopped squeezing his hand and returned both to his pockets.

It was a good memory. In spite of everything, he was proud of his part in it. He hadn't sat down and really thought on the event by itself since it happened, but here in captivity, it was of some comfort. _No matter what happens to me here, at least I had that. _

And so, he wasn't particularly angry at Maya Barton.

"Walker, change of orders!"

He was being shouted at by one of the NCOs belonging to the security detail whose name Walker hadn't bothered to learn.

"Excuse me?"

"Official business. You'll be returning to the Military Quarter."

"What about Admiral Arroway?"

"She's skipping the review, Captain Soletta will do it instead."

"Well, obviously Captain Soletta's going to inspect the machine she's flying…listen, I don't think you…" Walker began again before stopping himself. Not only was the sergeant not listening, it made no sense as to why Walker was bothering to share his concerns anyway. _Don't forget you're a prisoner here, you idiot. _

Nonetheless, the sergeant waited a split second for him to finish before whistling at Walker to follow him down the walkway and out of the dry dock, passing Null just before the bulkhead door. The chief technician looked equal parts surprised and dismayed.

"What is it now?'

"Orders from the top," the sergeant said with an apathetic shrug, the kind he could only give to a civilian, and only one he felt fairly comfortable around. "Sorry, Chief."

"God, I…but the inspection…" Null began before groaning and holding his hand to his face. "What the hell's this supposed to mean?"

Passing him, Walker couldn't resist. "For starters? I guess your Defense Minister doesn't care that much about this mobile armor after all," he told them before disappearing from view into the dark corridor beyond.

Having regularly completed at least two flights a day with Lieutenant Scott and his helicopter, Walker had gotten to the point where he could ignore the obvious dangers of his careless style of flying and simply listen to the pilot prattle on loudly—which was no more productive, but at least gave him something to do as they returned to the Military Quarter after each trip, bypassing the urban landscape below.

"Clockin' out early, Walkuh?" he asked, practically screaming.

"It seems like Admiral Arroway is going to meet all of us in the Military Quarter and skip her inspection."

"Really? What business do you have with the Admiral, anyway?" Scott asked.

Walker stared at him. "Really? You're asking me that _now_?"

The co-pilot spoke up angrily. "They're meeting the International Red Cross, you idiot!"

"Who's the idiot? I'm the one flying this thing!"

The helicopter dropped about three meters abruptly, for no given reason, causing a different Noventan soldier escorting Walker to fall out of his seat—had he not been secured to it by a seatbelt, he likely would have fallen out of the helicopter itself. _Is he a Colonial? Or another foreign soldier? That would be an interesting letter to the family: We regret to inform you that your husband-slash-father died from an accidental fall from a helicopter in a noncombat zone. _Walker held back a smirk.

Scott carelessly looked over his shoulder and began yelling again, ignoring the very angry soldier. "So, three things to remember before you gedoff Walkuh! _Don't_ do anything to make her look bad in public, _don't _mention this flight, and for godsakes, _don't mention her mother!_"

The helicopter flight was mercifully short, with Walker anxiously jumping from his seat, only to feel a hand grab his arm. It belonged not to the soldier following him, but to the helicopter's pilot.

"You got that, Walker?" Scott asked, his voice surprisingly appropriate in volume.

Walker looked him in the eye, then at his hand. "You're getting machine oil all over your hands."

Scott released him and looked at his blackened hand before cursing in Esperanto.

"So I'm meeting with the Red Cross," Walker repeated to the soldier escorting him. "I was under the impression your country wasn't a signatory up to this point."

The soldier, reluctant to speak, looked away idly instead.

"That's fine, you don't have to answer," Walker muttered.

"You…should really ask Captain Fielding about this sort of thing. He'll joining Minister Arroway."

_Come to think of it, why haven't I ever spoken to Captain Fielding again? Is he just busy or something? _Rather than being led back to his room in the barracks, Walker was guided to a well-lit military rec room with its windows boarded up, where four other men were waiting. They looked odd to Walker—it was only a few seconds later did he realize they were all wearing OZ Space Forces hunter greens in various levels of condition, primarily missing their qualification badges, pins, or any type of military decoration. Their uniforms were all the cut of either pilot or flight officers. Their conversations cut the second Walker entered.

Walker just stood there, and the escorting soldier spoke. "I'll have your attention, please. This is Flight Lieutenant Walker. He'll be joining you today."

Immediately, the four other men snapped to attention. All five were missing their uniform caps, nor was Walker wearing one, so there was no saluting. After a few more seconds of confusion, Walker stepped forward and extended out his hand after wiping it on a cleaner part of his work suit.

"Walker, Seventh Division, Space M.S. Troops."

"Very good, sir. Aleksandrov, First Division, Space Troops."

"Abed, also First Division, Space Troops."

"Harrison, Second Division Communications Battalion, Space Troops."

"Cohen, the _Goiás_, CL-118 before it sank, Space Navy."

He shook hands with all four of them before Harrison added, "There were two women from the First Division Intelligence Company, but they were relocated to a ship more than a week ago. There are only male prisoners in D-120, apparently."

"I suppose that makes sense," Walker mumbled.

"If you mind me saying so, Flight Lieutenant, you look really awful. What've they been doing to you?"

He _did _seem much worse for the wear than any of the other prisoners-of-war. "It's what a few days of sixteen-hour work shifts compounded with poor sleep will do to you. Otherwise, nothing."

"That must be against something in the Geneva Convention."

"Only if they don't pay me afterwards," Walker muttered, plopping down onto the floor in a tired pile. The other officers did the same, forming a small, orderly circle—a general sense of military procedure had stuck with them.

"Did they put you to work immediately after 'interviewing' you?" one asked, putting heavy emphasis on the war.

"They never interrogated me properly," Walker muttered, before sitting up. "Did they 'interview' all of you?"

The others nodded. "Of course. Not that we could tell them anything they didn't already know. Strict orders from the brass: total information control and redundancy, right? That's why they don't bother with any psychological preparation, it's better for us just not knowing anything worthwhile." Abed pointed out with a finger extended. "Cohen here knew even less, even the ship commanders in the fleet only got their own orders, not as an entire unit."

"That was probably a smart move," Walker observed.

"So they…really didn't interrogate you, sir?"

"No, they just interviewed me. Literally. Just to find out how I was." He thought back to his conversations with Fielding and Khattāb. "Nothing to do with 'Citadel'."

A piercing whistle blew, this belonging to a new NCO who wore it hanging from a lanyard attached to his tunic. "Gentlemen, the show's about to start. Try and look good for the Red Cross inspectors, please. Defense Minister Arroway and Captain Fielding will be there as well, so _watch it_," he warned somberly, before gesturing for them to follow him out of the room.

**IV**

When Captain Fielding finally reached Arroway in the main barracks courtyard, he found he wasn't alone in his atypical dress: Arroway wore her usual Alliance Space Navy flag officer's uniform, a black double-breasted blazer with silver buttons over a drab olive tunic, but had forgone her familiar brown cloak and wasn't carrying her trademark folded fan. Fielding, on the other hand, had skipped his service uniform entirely, and instead wore a standard military normal suit and his visor cap.

"I can't remember the last time I saw you in one of those—am I pulling you away from something?" she asked incredulously. The reference was clear—Arroway too had served in the Alliance Space Mobile Suit Troops before her rapid promotion to a cabinet-level position.

"Just preparatory drills, ma'am," he assured her stiffly, coming to a stop next to her. "I imagine you've been much more inconvenienced than me."

The inspection by the International Red Cross, schedule rather inopportunely, had demanded both a ranking security officer—in this case, Fielding from the 101st Intelligence Squadron—and a high-ranking space forces commander—in this case, the Defense Minister who was among the few available. Neither was pleased to spend their time doing this.

"You'd think as much a boy scout as Gwinter is, he'd be willing to take some time out of his busy schedule and handle this personally. He agreed to the request, after all," Arroway said, clearly prodding for a response from Fielding.

"Well, I imagine if your…description of the President were truly accurate, we wouldn't be in these circumstances in the first place, ma'am."

"You can blame the Old Man for that," she countered, referring to the Elder Septim rather than his grandson. Fielding didn't reply that time.

Led by a small cadre of officers from the General Staff, three middle-aged men in off-white double-breasted blazers and dark slacks, with the familiar Red Cross emblem sewn to their chests, crossed the courtyard and shook Arroway's waiting hand and tried to ignore her mildly unnerving tight-lipped smile before shaking Captain Fielding's through his normal suit.

In the barrack's unused cafeteria, the five prisoners were left waiting, while Walker was given a fresh working uniform to change into on the spot. He considered asking why he wasn't wearing a uniform like the others, but didn't bother, instead sitting in a chair until a Noventan medic jammed a needle into his shoulder just under his collar.

Walker gave a short cry and tried to jerk about to no avail. "What the hell was that?"

The medic expertly withdrew the syringe and set it aside. "Calm down, Lieutenant. It's a mild stimulant, perfectly normal. It'll make you a little more alert and active, maybe bring some color back to your face. Like a caffeine pill, but healthier."

"Then why don't you stick it in your neck?" Walker snapped back angrily, putting a hand over the wound. The medic pried it away and stuck a bandage in its place, before fixing up Walker's collar like he was a child about to leave for school.

"It'd disturb the doctor's lovely disposition," Cohen offered, getting a chuckle out of the other prisoners.

"I don't feel any different," Walker muttered.

"Give it a moment."

Walker was still fixing the collar of his his work suit when the medic received a message on his earpiece, nodding at an unseen speaker.

"Very well. Gentlemen, you're going to stand here, try and look like officers, and tell the truth and nothing else." The medic glanced at Walker. "You, on the other hand, should try not to say anything."

Walker rolled his eyes as the door opened and Captain Fielding stepped through, his movements clumsy in his tan normal suit. He held the door open as a slightly older woman—she looked no more than thirty, possibly her mid-thirties—of large build with long, straight black hair and cropped bangs framing her face entered, dressed in a smart-looking admiral's daily uniform.

Counter Admiral Arroway, Alliance Space Navy. Her appearance was not what he expected, though he had little basis for his guesses. She looked far more like an eccentric mobile suit pilot than a flag officer, and had a bearing to match.

"Good morning, gentlemen," the older man following Arroway announced with an appreciable accent. "I am Hans Sohler, a special investigator for the International Red Cross, and I am here to confirm your wellbeing and…" he began methodically. Walker did not feel particularly better from the injection and instead found it more challenging to pay attention to the voice that continued to speak and instead focused on keeping his twitching eyes trained on Arroway and Fielding.

**V**

Misfit Flight—the new call sign designating flights under the command of Flight Lieutenant Chernenko and Flight Officer Kaneshiro—was thrown back into the barrage when part of the invasion force stalled against a pocket of resistance in a 50 kilometer radius around an particular ex-Alliance defensive platform, successfully hardened against mobile suit attack weeks earlier.

"_Where's our fire support?_"

"_Ma'am, the _Calypso _is still suffering damage from an earlier missile attack, it can't bring its main cannons to bear and is holding back for refuel and refit operations!_"

Inside what was temporarily her OZ-12SMSK, Kanna announced into her helmet "Well, this sucks!" The cruiser OZSS _Calypso _was supposed to follow the squadron into the area, and use its main guns to blast apart the defensive platform from a safe distance. Instead, the platform got to sit there with impunity, scaring off anything that could get close enough to bring a beam cannon to bear with a withering antiaircraft barrage, while two _Berlin-_class escort carriers, one of which was also launching fighters along with mobile suits, remained safely behind it, adding to its firepower.

_They're counting on us to risk it, lose our patience and charge ahead with a beam cannon. _Kanna grinned. _But they don't know that I've got another job to do._

"_Misfit 2-1 to Misfit Actual!_"

Chernenko's voice came back. "_Copy._"

"_You've got your beam cannon on hand—can you cover me for thirty seconds?_"

Chernenko's Taurus held its long beam cannon, which he had used to destroy a pair of fighter craft as they tried to return to their carrier after completing their attack run. "_Wait, what?_"

Kanna kept her machine's beam cannon stowed on her back. "_I wanna' check out that _Iowa-_class wreck, I think the lost pilots from Squadron Three might taking cover in it!_"

Inside his cockpit, Chernenko still had an expression of disbelief on his face, even as he took cover behind another machine in his flight and punched up an information report from the military network on one of his MFDs. The short line was very clear: Kim's Flight in Squadron 3 had gone missing in the initial encounter with the defensive platform, when it was still disguised as a simple refueling station.

**Alert 102: F/L Kim, H. (Talon 1-1) and P/O Levinsky, T. (Talon 1-3) reported missing while assisting the **_**Arizona **_**(BC-42), by F/O Choi, J. (Talon 1-2). Believed to still be vicinity of the cruiser, coordinates follow.**

_Well, it doesn't get more specifically useless than that_, Chernenko thought while switching the screen back. "Did you detect their I.F.F.?"

"_Negative, sir. I'm sure they've gone silent._"

This was taking too long, he knew. "Fine, Kanna, do whatever you want. You got thirty seconds to make it work!" he told her as he brought his machine over his comrade's and fired his beam cannon at full power.

"_Understood, sir. Ajay, hold my return vector!_"

"_Affirmative, but I want you to know I object to this!_"

"Noted!" Kanna barked back as she snapped the switch to return to fighter mode before leaning forward on both control sticks. She made a direct line for long, grey-white wreck of a light cruiser, the heat radiating from its earlier catastrophic explosion clearly marked on her HUD.

The platform's defensive guns immediately took note and a few of the large number of turrets turned to face her instead. "Misift 2-3, begin evasive cover routine, make sure you keep its attention!" she ordered the mobile doll following her, which immediately placed itself of ahead of her before transforming back into mobile suit mode, beam cannon in hand.

"This is Misfit 2-1 to any Squadron Three survivors, respond!" She still had about fifteen seconds after she finished the sentence.

When nothing came back, Kanna angrily tapped her right index finger against her flight stick. "Squadron Three, can you hear me?"

_Shit, I'm out of time! _She'd already spotted the largest surviving portion of the _Arizona _and decided it was too obvious, instead turning her machine and diving right into the nearby cloud of wreckage and the half-as-massive bow section just twenty meters away. Putting her machine back into mobile suit mode, she took cover behind the still-massive section and punched a side monitor display with her right fist quickly but angrily, while the cockpit flashed periodically from the brief-lasting light of antiaircraft fire that had followed her. Her thirty seconds were long since up, but her tireless mobile doll continued its jarring, erratic dance, forcing the platform's guns facing her to waste their time on it.

She was about to curse her bad luck when a ping sounded in her cockpit and she looked to her left: emerging from an open bulkhead door along a severed section was the small but unmistakable figure of an OZ sky blue normal suit appearing for a few seconds before ducking away.

Kanna fumbled with her communication controls for a second before shouting excited, "This is Misfit 2-1, are you there?"

The response was grainy and unclear, but could be understood. "_This is Talon 1-3 and Talon Actual to Misift 2-1…we're taking cover inside the _Arizona_, our…and we…_" the voice said before cutting out entirely.

The flight officer felt her adrenaline pumping in a way dodging fire had failed to do and grinned triumphantly before opening her hatch and checking her sidearm. "_Affirmative, Talon call signs, this is Flight Officer Kaneshiro, what's the rescue passcode?_" she asked, already leaping out of her cockpit and towards the damaged section with the open bulkhead door.

"_Wait, Kaneshiro? How are…oh, right, sorry ma'am," _the distorted voice said, first excited before becoming measured again. "_Today's rescue code is dragonfly-seven-one, again, the code is…fly-seven-one_."

She was already pressed against the bulkhead door with her sidearm drawn when she confirmed the daily code was correct, then expertly threw herself around the heavy door and through the portal before landing with her feet firmly on the floor and her pistol pointed down the hall. _Looks like all those years in swim club paid off_. Her attention turned to the two smaller men in front of her: one in a resting position cradling an arm under a damaged normal suit, the other standing more alert, with an emergency medical kit in one hand and a signal flare in another.

"_Save the flare_," was the first thing Kanna told him, before recognized the pilot. "_Levinsky!_"

"_Flight Officer Kaneshiro!_" he chirped, immediately saluting while still holding the first aid kit. "_I thought it was you!_"

"_And I'm glad I remember you this time_," Kanna replied, still sounding surprised. "_Flight Lieutenant Kim, sir, are you all right?_"

Bracing himself against the corridor wall, Kim oriented himself so that he could better show her his arm. "_Broken arm, Levinsky sealed the tear though._" He grunted. "_My flight was covering the _Arizona_ as it fled after the platform dropped its disguise and revealed all those turrets…smart trick, really_."

"_What happened?_"

"_A one-in-a-million shot: out of a volley of eight, one torpedo struck the Arizona through the armored deck right behind the second turret and must have set off a magazine—the entire ship split in half right to the keel. By the time my main camera came back online, my machine was already hit, either by the debris or the defensive platform. Knocked me around like a ragdoll._" He carefully flexed one leg, then the other.

"_And when the rest of the guns opened up, you took cover in the wreckage._"

"_Not a lot of options at the time,_" Kim admitted. "_My second seat, Choi, got away, but Levinsky here wanted to check up on me._"

"_My mobile suit's was damaged in the blast, but still operational. Fire damaged by stabilizer, another one-in-a-million shot,_" Levinsky explained.

"_Can you get us out of here?_" Kim explained as Kanna propelled herself back to the open door.

"_I'm not getting you out of here—not until that platform's dealt with,_" Kanna said, before swinging herself around the open bulkhead door and back to her mobile suit. "_Just hang tight!_"

"_Wait, what about the flight lieutenant?_" Levinsky shouted into his helmet as Kanna drifted into her open cockpit before closing it behind her. On the right-side MFD, Misfit 2-3's status was displayed—some light damage from antiaircraft fire, but otherwise unfazed as it kept its impossible darting maneuvers—and she punched a function key, bringing up the subroutines.

"Misfit 2-3, return to formation and cover me. Misfit 2-2, Mazuri, you still there?"

"_Yes I'm still here, where else would I be? You took your bloody time!_" came the angry response.

"If you can distract the platform somehow, I can get a shot off with my beam cannon, that would _have_ to reduce their defensive firepower!" Kanna explained.

"_How the hell do I do that?_" Mazuri replied desperately.

"I don't know, you're the ace, you think of something!"

"_Misfit 1-3 to Misfit Actual, three mobile suits, incoming heading two-four-six, friendlies!_" another announced, as Kanna's cockpit pinged indicating the detection of three friendly I.F.F. signals.

"_All call signs, this is Horizon Actual!_" a new voice announced. Kanna quickly identified it: Flight Lieutenant Winthrop. "_We're incoming on the higher vector and are carrying an area-of-effect payload. Misfit, 2-1, can you read me?_"

Kanna's mobile suit had already stowed its beam rifle and was drawing out its beam cannon. "_Copy, Horizon Actual._"

"_We see you pinned down down behind the _Arizona _as nine-five-zero meters from the platform, can you confirm?_"

"_Confirmed, Horizon Actual_."

"_Acknowledged. All call signs, go to at least five-hundred from the target and do not look directly into the flash! We're deploying our payload now!_"

"What payload do you have that's possibly any good...?" Kanna asked incredulously as she rapidly tapped her left-hand MFD, trying to bring up data on the arriving Taurus troops. Abruptly, both MFDs blared an alert tone and turned red, before her entire cockpit was bathed in blinding white light followed by distorted camera static.

**VI**

"Miss Dorothy? Miss Dorothy!"

Ann Pratt walked down the steps of the kitchen porch of her family's estate outside Holladay. She found the granddaughter of the Duke of Liechtenstein sitting on a swing, where she was staring at the city that stretched out beneath her to the west.

Dorothy was watching the small cities that sat in the valley between the two tree-capped mountain ranges. She knew it started from West Valley City, to Salt Lake City, and eventually New Jerusalem west of that—or what was left of those locals. A few plumes of smoke still rose in the west over the recovered portion of the Great Salt Lake, particularly in the direction of the city's government buildings.

"Oh, hello Ms. Pratt," she said, standing up and bowing politely. "I'm sorry you had to come looking for me."

"It's quite all right, Dorothy, I'm just surprised to find out you out here. I thought you'd want to join us on the lake before you had to leave Utah."

"Oh, I very much would," Dorothy cooed in response. Unlike the practically-dressed former-First Lady, Dorothy was exorbitantly attired in a sleeveless white sun dress with a red stripe and a large white sunhat.

_Must be how she stays so pale. _"Well, let me just Johanna to get bring Kate and we'll all be ready to leave."

"Do you need any help?" Dorothy asked, her inflection very different than before, almost hopeful.

"No, no, Dorothy, we'll be fine. I'll be right back," Ms. Pratt assured her, so Dorothy remained behind, standing near the swing set, and returned to surveying the outcome of OZ's Invasion of Colorado with her own eyes.

"The damage doesn't look so bad from up here," she muttered to herself softly as the wind almost blew her sunhat away. Of course, she knew that to be deceptive, and that the Utahan public, particularly those in Salt Lake County, had suffered in the war, and now depending on food aid from the U.N.O., the Romefeller Foundation and a few other NGOs to stay fed, while fuel for electrical production and automotive and rail travel was given by OZ itself. _It looks like YO-448 hasn't had any lasting effects on the landscape, just as it was designed not to. Though I don't think the people of State of Deseret will forgive the leader who used that weapon on their own homeland and couldn't even win the warm_, she surmised, using another more anachronistic name for the Republic of Utah.

She'd enjoyed her time in Holladay, a comfortable vacation compared to the semi-military life of staying with the Mobile Suit Troops in Denver. Dorothy considered her traveling assignments the favorite of her privileges of being the daughter of the Chairman of the Romefeller Foundation, and even enjoyed the arduous task over providing counsel to those unwilling to listen or negotiating, or even just inherently hostile to her allegiance. The May Revolutions, and the War itself, had been kind to her.

Dorothy looked in the direction of the the southern sky, trying to see MO-III, the lowest-orbiting of the resource satellites still in Earth orbit. Normally, it was easily visible to the naked eye, but it remained hidden in the midday sun.

_Hurry up, Treize, hurry up, Grandfather. Hurry up and change the world. _

**VII**

"Squadron Three Pilot Officer Terentij Levinsky, requesting permission to come aboard!" The very young Space Mobile Suit Troops officer stood at an angle in the weightless interior of the Taurus Rapid Deployment Carrier assigned to Kaneshiro Flight in Squadron 1. They were now safely in Area 'D' space controlled by the mobile suits of the 2nd Order of the Chrysanthemum Space Division.

Immediately turning himself to stand 'upright' relative to the ship's small interior, F/O Mazuri gave the youngster a strange look and returned his salute unnecessarily. "Permission granted, Mr. Levinsky?" he asked.

"Thank you, sir!" he said before lurching forward, behind him a single, long leg capped with a boot. Kanna had climbed out of her seat, part-way through the umbilical tube connected to her mobile suit, and kicked him into the hold.

"Salute on your own time, Levinsky, I gotta' use it!" she snapped a little harshly before floating into the center cabin, turning herself in the air, and launching herself towards the bow. Levinsky, floating upside-down relative to Mazuri, watched her with an expression of confusion. Down from the cockpit compartment, another blond-haired man leaned into the corridor.

"What was that about?"

"We have a guest Dac," Mazuri shouted back, pointing at himself then the other. "Ajay, Bishop. He's a P/O like you."

"Yes sir."

"What's bothering Kanna? I thought you said she knew this kid," Dac yelled back before returning to his seat behind the carrier's controls.

"I was sitting in her lap for a while," Levinsky conceded somberly.

"Well I doubt she's using the lavatory anyway."

"Why's that?"

Mazuri patted the other man on the back. "Because she grabbed a spare headset from the cockpit and went into the galley rather than the W.C.. I would say she's asking about that _tactical nuke_ used by our compatriots in Fourth Company. Which I _am _curious about," he admitted.

"I'm just glad Kanna-…Ms. Kaneshiro got me out of there. Was she always your flight leader?"

"No, our lieutenant, Walker, has gone missing, apparently a prisoner in D-120." Levinsky's eyes grew a good deal wider upon hearing that. "Don't worry about it, we got multiple people on the case. In fact, that's why you're here."

"Excuse me, sir?"

Mazuri had already turned away, which conveniently hid his alarmed expression. "Don't worry about that either, actually. In the meantime, let's hope Squadron Three returns our mobile suit with your flight lieutenant onboard so we can finally have a proper third seat again. Worry about _that _instead."

He looked over his shoulder. "You hungry, kid?"

"Starving actually," admitted.

"You look like it. Don't they feed you enough in Squadron Three?"

Levinsky didn't have an answer to that so he remained silent but smiling politely. In the galley, Kanna was crouched into a small, for her, alcove near the refrigerator cabinet, her helmet floating in front of her and the spare comm headset over her head.

"Fine, I'll repeat myself! This is Flight Officer Kaneshiro with Squadron One, First Company, and I want to speak to someone about the goddamn _thermonuclear_ weapons our division has been armed with without anyone knowing, and I'll keep yelling until I get a damn answer!" she shouted angrily.

A displeasing answer. "You disconnect and I swear to God and Chilias Catalonia I will come to _Barge _and beat a satisfactory answer out of you."

The door to the axial corridor slid open and Mazuri followed in by Levinsky. "Oh glorious provisional commander, we're not intruding are we?"

She force an unconvincing, agitated-looking smile as she held the headset away from her. "What's up?"

"We were gonna' feed the kid here. I don't think the squadron commander'll be that pleased if we return him to her hun…gry…" he said, trailing of and turning rigid he began to float slowly upwards. Kanna rolled her eyes while Levinsky looked around, not understanding what was happening.

"Help yourself, Levinsky. This isn't Utah, you can have coffee. We don't have anything alcoholic though," she said, a more natural, familiar smiling returning to her face.

"Thank you, Ms. Kane-…Kanna," he said, drifting the short distance to the opposite wall that was lined with space-efficient compartments alongside the refrigerator.

Kanna nodded gregariously before propelling herself out of the galley, headset in hand, with Mazuri soon following.

"It's about that T.N.W. Winthrop Flight used, wasn't it?" Mazuri whispered quietly, as though speaking on an incriminating topic.

"You remember the last time a tactical nuclear weapon was actually _used _on a battlefield?" Kanna asked him, crossing her arms over her chest.

He adjusted his thin-rimmed glasses while he thought. "Honestly, no. I heard Septim II authorized some to be used against the Gundams at New Edwards, but they were intercepted at high-altitude."

She nodded. "Not in our lifetime."

"You're sure that was a thermonuclear explosion?"

"What else could it have been?"

More glasses-adjusting accompanying an uncomfortable pause. "Walker better watch out, you're sounding more and more like him."

Kanna gave him a friendly, but hard, punch in the shoulder that knocked him against the corridor. "Don't say that! We need to him back, don't we?"

"Well, let's just hope that Ogasawara comes through then, huh?"

**VIII**

With only a handful of prisoners to inspect, Inspector Sohler finished his work quickly before thanking Admiral Arroway for her time and extending his hand. Arroway didn't take it, though Fielding did when it was offered to him. They stood down the hall from the rec room where the prisoners remained.

Aleksandrov was left standing next to Walker, who was irreverently immersed in a digital reader he held in his left hand.

"What are you reading?"

"A novel from L1, I'm about two-thirds of the way through."

Aleksandrov looked over his shoulder at the illustrated frames. "_The One Year War_, I've heard of that. How is it?"

Walker looked up. "To my surprise it's still interesting. I'm at the Battle of Granada, the Lunar Campaign."

"Isn't Granada a city in Spain?"

"Yes," Walker assured him before looking back at the reader.

Aleksandrov sighed and looked at the reader Walker stared at so intently before turning back to the inspectors. "He works for the Yuy Foundation, you know that?"

"Who?"

"Sohler. Part of their charitable NGO office, I heard," Aleksandrov told him. "During the division inauguration, he was a guest."

Down the hall, Arroway waited standing between Fielding and a master sergeant for the inspection team to depart.

"Looks like everything's in good standing," Arroway mumbled, sounding almost bemused.

"Of course it is, ma'am. They weren't here when we questioned Maya Barton." Fielding's tone was halfway between joking and warning.

"Don't trouble yourself with minor details, Captain, it's very unbecoming. Have the prisoners sent back, then see how Captain Soletta likes her new toy."

"Yes ma'am but…ma'am, I do have my existing orders."

Arroway heaved a tired sigh, rolling her eyes dramatically. "Fine, I'll send someone else to check on her," she told him with a dismissive motion of her hand.

"Yes ma'am. Thank you, ma'am." Fielding turned to the master sergeant and gave a nod signaling that he should contact the relevant personnel to transport the prisoners back to their scheduled locations. Abed and Walker were attended to last. One pair of enlisted men came back for Walker and indicated he'd return to the military dock.

"Wouldn't that mean another helicopter ride?" Abed asked as he stood up and joined his own detail.

"I'm not looking forward to it," Walker admitted.

"Well, at least they're too busy working you to the bone to bother with you otherwise," he replied, sticking out his hand close to his body. Walker leaned in and shook it, only to have himself pulled slightly towards Abed for a moment.

"Mind for broken bones, sir, the medics can't stand having to set splints here. And try and get some outdoor work."

The impatient noncommissioned officer leading the detail blew his whistle again and took Walker by the arm, sternly but not maliciously, before swiftly leading him off. Walked thought of Abed's awkward-sounding advice before being led on a short, slow jog back to the waiting helicopter.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<br>**_

_Another chapter, another several pages of slow build-up. I've long since gotten used to the idea that the D-120 plotline is basically my equivalent of the manga arc that goes on for years instead of months, like Robert's Blood Trail in _Black Lagoon _or the final arc of _Oh! My Goddess _(though at least that was good enough to include the three best characters, including two that had been largely excluded from the plot). The intricacies of all this scheming and prisoner-of-war business have proven to be more and more of a challenge, especially since what started out as a short homage to a particular episode of _Gundam Unicorn _has rapidly spun out of control into something much more grand. Hopefully, the pay-off will be worth it, but it's been fun to write nonetheless. _

_Not-so-fun Fact: Noncomissioned officer is rendered in Chrome's dictionary as 'non-commissioned officer'. Another little style issue for me to fret about endlessly, though in this case, I think I've consistently avoided using the hyphen, so to hell with you and your dictionary, Google. More relevantly, I found (though the much-appreciated assistance of others) that I described the three mobile armors developed by the Alliance incorrectly, and went back to Chapter 43 to correct them (my only defense being that they're fairly minute changes). __EA-00MA 'Caardus' was left on Earth (where Yoshitsune ran into it). EA-01MA ''Epidendrum' has not been seen yet. And finally, EA-01MA1 'Chrysanthemum', the final unit, is the one Walker is involved wit. Additionally, Chrysanthemum is slightly asymmetrical, having two large beam cannons and then one larger 'multi-purpose gun'? On the kitbash it's hard to say what purpose it serves, so I've just labeled it a rail gun, as everyone seems to like rail guns. That's the problem with using an existing model I suppose.  
><em>

__Additionally, I was going to call this chapter 'The Calm', but I realize just how much I hated that title ('Scrutiny' is only slightly better). __

_And more Universal Century references. Granada, to the best of my knowledge, is not an actual geographical location on the Moon. Von Braun is, however, a crater (though in the After Colony setting, the only location of real import on Luna is the Marius Crater._


	47. The Noventan Nightmare

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 47 – The Noventan Nightmare**

_18 September, AC 195_

For once, Flight Officer Kaneshiro got an answer when she demanded one. Being recalled to _Barge_, along with three of the six companies in the 7th Strategic Aerospace Division, was not the answer she was expecting however.

"Do you think it has to do with those nukes?" Pilot Officer Bishop asked in the cockpit compartment of the Taurus carrier as soon as someone entered.

"I can see the headlines now: OZ brings out nuclear weapons, Septim calls it quits. War over," Flight Officer Mazuri offered, sitting next to Dac in the co-pilot's seat.

"So, is it too much to ask everyone just...gives up? Or that all of this is totally unnecessary?"Dac asked. Mazuri gave an inelegant shrug, so he turned to the large woman sitting behind him. "What about you, Kanna?"

Behind Mazuri, Kanna said nothing, instead sitting very quietly with her legs pressed against her chest, her face deep in thought.

Dac gave an anxious sigh. _So Kanna gets the job, and she says nothing. And Walker couldn't shut up when he had it. This is just great_, he thought, clenching his jaw unhappily before looking at the displays around him. "Vector received over datalink from _Barge_. Permission to complete final burn?"

Kanna nodded and spoke. "Do it."

Grasping onto handholds, Mazuri pulled himself out of his seat and drifted out of the cockpit compartment as Dac began counting down from ten before pressing a key and burning propellant for about eight seconds before stopping.

"On course for _Barge _in eleven hours, seventeen minutes," Dac announced. Rising out of her seat, Kanna gave him a quiet pat on the shoulder before leaving the compartment. In the main corridor, she passed Pilot Officer Levinsky, who got out of the way and floated at attention before she passed and he entered the cockpit. Dac made a note of the maneuver in a paper notebook with a red pencil hanging from it by a length of string, before closing the book and sticking it a nearby compartment.

"Mr. Bishop? May I…?" Levinsky asked, gesturing to the co-pilot's seat.

"Go ahead."

His normal suit crinkling, Levinsky sat down in the empty seat before looking back at Dac. "Mr. Bishop, I meant to ask you—why didn't you fly Ms. Kaneshiro's machine while she takes the flight lieutenant's?"

Dac stared absently at Levinsky for a few seconds before forcing an awkward laugh. "That's a good one, Levinsky, you're funny! And you really don't look like you would be," he told him, smacking his glove against Levinsky's back, almost knocking him out of his seat.

"Thank you, Mr. Bishop, but…it wasn't a joke. I mean, you must have at least twice the flight hours I do, you're overqualified to be a mothership pilot."

"You hear that, Dac, someone think's you're qualified!" Kanna jeered down the corridor from the galley.

"Overqualified, Kanna! _Over-_qualified!" he announced before floating from his seat and walking to the end of the cockpit compartment. He grabbed the thin compartment door and swung it shut, twisting the handle with a loud _clank_. "There's the Kanna Kaneshiro I know."

He floated back to his seat, his expression more subdue. Levinsky waited politely with his hands in his laps.

"Listen, Levinsky, you're a nice kid, so I'll just spell it out for you: I don't go out in the Taurus mobile suit, all right? The last mobile suit I operated in a combat was an Aries."

"But why not, sir?"

"I just told you why, Levinsky, what the hell more do you want? My life story?"

"No, sir….I mean…" Levinsky began quickly before sighing. "I'm grateful Ms. Kaneshiro came after me and all, and I know we're on our way to _Barge _as we speak but…wouldn't it just make more sense for you to be the third seat and for a replacement carrier pilot to be appointed?"

An uncomfortable silence followed in the small compartment, while Dac pressed the switch to dim the instrument panel lights. Levinsky wondered if he was stalling for time when he spoke again.

"You know, I'd be the first person to say I'm not that good a pilot. In Aries operations, I was the reserve and support pilot. And…I really don't mind that fact, actually. Mazuri's what happens when a child prodigy grows up, and isn't in the Special Troops. Kanna's proof that great warriors can be at least decent soldiers, and she's just small enough to fit into a mobile suit cockpit. Walker…Flight Lieutenant Walker, our commanding officer, isn't really that good of a pilot. He can just….think of things the right way, and has a knack for not dying, so instead he just keeps getting the crap beat out of him each time anyway."

He leaned forward against the nonresponsive control yoke, his head buried in his arms. "I was promoted to pilot officer just a few weeks before Operation 'Daybreak'. The more I've thought about it, the more surprised I am that I made that commission into an elite military unit at all. The more pilots I've met, the less I thought I was qualified to be an officer in the _Speciali _and should have been in the Alliance Air Force."

Levinsky remained silent.

"But I put it out of my mind when I had to. It was enough to worry about staying alive, especially against the Gundams."

"What happened?"

He looked around. "I stopped flying a mobile suit. Around the same time, I got a really bad idea in my head: that I was only commissioned in the Mobile Suit Troops because they needed them."

"Needed what?" Levinsky asked, his head cocked.

He sighed. "Warm bodies for the coup d'état."

**II**

Flight Officer Abed, of 1st Order for Merit Space Division, Space Mobile Suit Troops, asked the soldier posted to his door if he could leave to use the sink in the restroom immediately down the hall from his own holding cell in the military police office's basement. When asked why, he held up a disposable plastic razor he'd bartered from another enlisted man earlier that day up to the thick polycarbonate resin that made up the doors and walls, then shook the packaging a few times.

The soldier on guard rolled his eyes and began unlocking the door. "I swear, Abed, you find a reason to go out on a walk every night."

"And after you give me all those hours of exercise time during the day. Have I told you how grateful I am?" Abed assured him.

The soldier suppressed a snicker before sliding the door and sticking out his hand. Abed gave him the package and stepped out of the cell onto a square on the floor marked with a fading yellow decal, was scanned by the soldier, then allowed to walk to the restroom. At the entrance, he paused, waited for the soldier to tear open the package and inspect the disposable razor before handing it back to him.

"I know you're in OZ and all, but prisoners usually don't _have _to shave regularly."

"On Earth, beards are for clergymen and computer programmers," Abed replied calmly, taking back the razor. "The uncivilized ones, anyway."

The soldier rolled his eyes again as Abed entered the restroom. "Tell me if you're going to use the stall."

"I will, I promise," Abed called back. He had no intention of using one of the camera-monitored stalls, too obvious a place to engage in suspicious behavior. Instead, he walked up to the far sink, inspected himself in the mirror, then looked up.

"May I turn on the light?"

"Yes," the guard groaned back.

Abed flipped the light switch twice, as if testing it, before leaving it on, then began forming lather to shave with from running water and soap from a nearby dispenser. Abed had already covered much of his lower face and neck when a pair of faint thumping sounds could be heard, followed by a much louder crack of concrete and linoleum floor paneling. The alarm rang, and the soldier immediately looked at Abed, who already had his arms over his head. While he was looking into the restroom, he had his back facing the other end of the hallway, where a large man in an armored normal suit holding a suppressed sub machinegun shot him three times between the shoulder blades, dropping him immediately.

The other soldier posted in an alcove near the restroom was better prepared, having already raised his machine pistol and aimed at the newcomer. He fired a short burst which simultaneously struck the wall next to the armored man and the armored plating on his shoulder, knocking him onto his back. An identically-dressed man, his weapon raised, fired as soon as his comrade fell, spraying blood on the alcove walls.

When he was certain the shooting had stopped, Abed ran out of the restroom, over the body of the man he'd just spoken to minutes earlier, soap dripping from his face. Of the three Colony and Asteroid Strike Troops that had entered the floor, one had been hit in the shoulder, another was inspecting his comrade and a third was carefully checking the two men they'd shot, weapon at the ready.

"Check the corporal, he should have the key," Abed shouted while the CAST who'd been hit rose to his feet, unharmed, a bullet having left a gash in the armor plating but not penetrated.

Sub-lieutenant Cohen, who'd been sleeping in the only other locked cell on the floor until woken by the second loud thump, was pressed against the thick polycarbonate as a CAST found the corporal's key and began running it over the digital lock.

"Shit, everything's on lockdown!" he yelled through his helmet. Cohen kicked the polycarbonate door in anger.

The ranking CAST, having checked his shoulder armor, ran to him. "Can you breach it?"

"Sure, but it's a small cell. We'd need a damn precise charge!"

"God_damn_ it, I knew we should've brought the breaching shotgun!" he cursed.

"There's no time," Cohen shouted through polycarbonate after striking it with his palms. "Get out of here!"

"Wait, there must be…" Abed began when the third CAST man grabbed him with his large arms.

"He's right, that door in the stairway won't stop them for long. We're getting out, _now!_"

Abed looked back at Cohen as the CAST carried him off, at a loss for words. "Sub-lieutenant…"

Cohen forced a smile through the carbonate as all four of them departed. "Don't worry, Mr. Abed, I'll look you up when this is over!"

As the remainder of the officers and troops posted at the military police office began to break through the door in the stairwell that the strike troops had barred seconds after blasting through an old trans-superstructure maintenance hatchway nearby. With Abed in tow, the rearmost CAST took one of his breaching charges, set the trigger to motion-activated, and slammed it against the hatch they shut after them, creating a simple but effective booby trap.

"That'll either slow them down or give them a few wounded to worry about."

By now, Abed was running as well. "Why didn't you use one back in there?"

"He didn't want the stairwell collapsing in on our only way out," the ranking CAST said, as their helmet-mounted lights clicked on. "Make a right here!"

While the military police unit negotiated the blatant booby trap, a call went out to their commanding officer, a middle-aged captain who was enjoying a last family outing before the frontlines came to L1-D-120 in earnest. The captain sat at the table, engaging in a somewhat mundane topic with his eldest son, an enlisted man himself, when the call went out to his mobile.

"It's urgent, dear, I have to take it," he said after glancing the screen it while it vibrated, kissing his wife on the head before leaving the table. She gave an exasperated laugh before returning to her children. The captain continued to the men's room, as the officer on the other end recounted the whole situation.

"How did they get in?" Pause. "Aren't the maintenance ways monitored on CCTV? My God. Well, you're probably right about the booby trap. If you're certain they're gone, stand down from alert, I'm going over right now. I'll call Fielding as well, if I can get ahold of him."

Another pause. "Damn them, all this for _two_ prisoners? What the hell is the matter with these people?"

The captain hung up on his mobile before opening the men's room door, where Eva Cebotari, in a modest evening coat typical of D-120's fashionable upperclass, was waiting with a semi-automatic sidearm with a suppressor screwed over the muzzle. She took three steps forward, forcing the captain wordlessly back into the men's room before raising her aim slightly and shooting him in the middle of the forehead. The slowed bullet still passed cleanly through his head before exiting out the back, cracking against the white tile that lined the men's room walls. He tumbled back, his mobile sliding across the floor.

Eva glanced at the cylindrical sound suppressor given to her, along with the weapon itself, by CAST earlier that day, impressed by its effectiveness—all she had heard was a much-diminished though still loud blast and the mechanical report of the pistol's moving parts. _Much faster than a knife_.

Kneeling over the body, she opened his left breast pocket, looked at his military ID, before slipping it back into his uniform and taking his mobile instead. She then exited the men's room, returned to her table, paid the waiting cheque with local paper money and left, quickly passing the family at the table in the center as she did. Eva had bought them time, _them _being the real muscle behind OZ's infiltrators in the colony, even at the rather high rate of a four or five hours for a human life. It might have been twice that if she could hide the body, but that wasn't possible now.

_Just like the old days_. She didn't care for them.

**III**

"You mind if I get some fresh air?"

Walker asked to the nearest enlisted man, who checked his watch. "Your shift's about to begin anyway. You can get some then."

Though he'd asked, Walker didn't know what was happening. He was pulling his working clothes back on and trying to scrub some of the stale exhaustion out of his face when the noncommissioned officer escorting him whistled for him to get a move on and they proceeded out of his room. Another shift had begun, and all of them were too far away to hear the very short burst of gunfire that had broken out in the military police office on the other side of the Military Quarter.

The two were about to leave through the well-lit front entrance when there was a loud but directionless creaking noise, like the sound of a bulkhead door scrapping against its hinges. Both men paused and another creaking sound, this one audibly originating below them, was heard, immediately followed by boots striking against metal floor panels and some muffled shouting.

Walker stared in the originating direction before his escort did, neither sure what would come up. The sergeant looked particularly concerned, even reaching for his holster, when one of the linoleum floor panels shifted with a cloud of dust in the small lobby.

"This is the Military Police Battalion, we're coming up!" a muffled voice announced carefully, and the sergeant forced himself to relax as the panel lifted up, revealing a maintenance hatchway underneath it. Another man in olive drab appeared, standing halfway out of the floor, and saluted the sergeant upon seeing him. "Sir! Sorry for the inconvenience, sir!"

The sergeant, still surprised, stared at the half of the man visible from the hatchway and frowned. "Corporal, what the hell is this?"

"Sir! I'm sorry, Sergeant, sir! We've gotten reports from here in the 'Quarter that enemy infiltrators were attempting to grab the prisoners. Has anything happened here, sir?"

The sergeant looked at the other soldier like he was insane. "No, nothing has happened here, Corporal," he finally answered. "Why the hell hasn't the call gone out?"

As if on cue, a nearby telephone set rang, and another soldier climbed out of the hatchway and actually picked it up and answered, while the sergeant kept looking incredulously at the newcomers.

"It was just a few minutes ago, sir," he explained, as the other man used a half-dozen words to answer the caller, than hung up. "You should probably put your prisoner into solitary confinement, sir. That's what we've done with the one they tried to grab but weren't able to."

"Well, I have my orders, Corporal, and they say bring the prisoner to the dry dock. And unless you have orders otherwise…"

"Sir, no sir!" the corporal said hurriedly, indicating he was still busy. The sergeant dismissed him before looking back at Walker.

"Things are getting goddamn _weird _here, you know that?"

Walker didn't have anything to say, so he just half-shrugged. "This war, I swear to God. Everyone's too busy trying to act normal to realize they've all gone nuts."

"Ever read _Storm of Steel_?" Walker asked.

The sergeant gave him the wary glance now. "No, I haven't," he said before taking Walker by the arm and leading him out the door.

During another dangerous helicopter ride, Walker visibly tried to survey for any signs of armed struggle or a rescue attempt, only to nearly fall out of the cabin from a predictable bump of turbulence. The sergeant laughed while a flustered Walker held onto his restraints more warily, and they touched down shortly afterwards.

"Something's going on though, right?" he asked him as they disembarked.

"Oh, I'm sure something is," the sergeant mumbled as the pilot and co-pilot got into a heated argument over a wager, complete with wide gesticulation in the cockpit. Walker took the same path through the armored doors and down the stairs into the naval dock, trying to smooth out some of the wrinkles in his suit.

The first thing he heard was Chief Null yelling. "No, no, bring it up again! Power it up, remove the safety, then go through the firing sequence, in that order!"

Stepping into the well-lit area, Walker saw Captain Soletta, in her starched service uniform, watching Chief Null yelling from the massive maneuvering wings at the stern of Chrysanthemum. There were two sets of wings that wrapped around the huge thruster-pod housings that stuck out from the back. In the direction of the core's cockpit, someone yelled back, followed by the familiar hum of subsystem power generators.

"Okay, it's working now! Thank you!"

Walker rubbed his hands together. Was he anxious? "It looks like it's finished."

"Yes, I think so as well," Soletta told him back, hands held primly behind her back. She looked at him directly, and he noticed her blue-green eyes for the first time. She _was _his age, barely more. "Thank you for your help, by the way."

He gave his best indignant grunt before looking away, hands in his jumpsuit pockets. "You'll remember I didn't have a choice, Captain."

The captain gave a tired but empathetic sigh, cocking her head before adjusting taking off her white uniform gloves. Turning directly to Walker, she stuck one hand out at him, catching him by surprised. "In all this time, I don't think we've formally been introduced. Carmen Soletta, First Central Division, Republican Guard Corps."

Despite everything, Walker found himself once again unable to resist shaking someone's hand. He remembered, briefly, his first meeting with Zechs Merquise, the open white-gloved hand waiting for him. Staring at her olive-colored palm, he instinctively took it. "Of course," he mumbled. "Oswald Walker, Seventh Strategic Aerospace Division, Space Mobile Suit Troops."

"Flight Lieutenant," she said, greeting him politely before releasing his hand. "But you _were _an engineer."

"Yes, I apprenticed at the Corsica Mobile Suit Works after being commissioned, before going to the Middle Eastern Air Army's Fourth Special Airborne Division."

"So you _weren't _a combat engineer?"

Walker recalled their earlier meeting. "No, Captain, I wasn't."

Soletta gave him a smile—a sympathetic one, as oppose to her previous self-satisfied expression—that lasted a brief moment. "That explains a few things."

"Yes, it probably would," he admitted. He watched Null carefully make his way to a gantry and lower himself down by motor.

"Walker, you're still here!" he announced, sounding surprised. "At least you get to see it: it's done!"

"Really?" Walker asked carefully.

"Well, as done as it's ever going to be. We just finished with our final checks, and the power plant's holding. It's operational!" he said, wiping his own brow. For the first time, Walker thought Null looked more tired than he did. "I've asked the captain what color she'd like it in, instead of just leaving it titanium grey and gunmetal when we launched it.

Soletta shook her head. "Really, Chief?"

"How about red, like the Republican Guards insignia?"

Closing her eyes, she shrugged and smiled before turning back to Walker. "Are your colleagues this annoying?"

"No, they aren't. If anything, I'm sure I bother them," Walker replied. Colonel North, Ogasawara Emi, Kanna; once again, he found himself wondering where they were right now, if they were unharmed. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. "If this mobile armor is finished, why bring me here?"

Soletta gave him a patronizing look. "One of your comrades, another pilot, was rescued by commandos. They're probably still somewhere in D-120. So all the other 'missing-captured' are being held in solitary confinement. Captain Fielding mentioned you didn't take well to the idea."

He understood. "I should thank you then."

She gave a patient nod and looked back at the monstrosity before them.

"So-let-ta," Walker said aloud, one syllable at a time. "May I ask where that name comes from?"

She looked back at him. "I don't know exactly. I've heard it's the Italian name for Solothurn, in Switzerland."

_Descended from the former Alliance leadership? _Walker almost asked, but said nothing. She continued, "I've always thought it was a little melancholy-sounding, not exactly reflective of my temperament," she smirked.

"Seething with rage," Walker mumbled very softly.

She looked at him, looking surprised. "Who said that, Flight Lieutenant?"

"Chief Null, actually."

She laughed once, a short, nearly angry laugh. "I guess that's true. Rage helps in this profession, doesn't it?"

Walker scratched his brow for a second. "I couldn't tell you, Captain, I'm not really the rage-carrying type."

"I got that impression from your good behavior so far. Your colleagues were far more obstinate and rebellious when we first captured them. You've been nothing if not cooperative."

He predictably didn't respond to that, but instead posed another question. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would you be seething with rage?"

She gave him a haughty look, running up and down his dirty grey jumpsuit with her eyes before smirking. "I didn't peg you for the curious type either. More robotic or automatous, really."

"Well, I _was_ an engineer. Though maybe it's none of my concern, Captain…"

"Why not?" she asked, cutting him off. "What could I have to be enraged about? I guess Chief Null is right, as a _pilot _I've counted on my rage and it's served me well," she said proudly, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I never thought I'd be fighting in a civil war, of course, much less on the opposing side of Earth. I'd been told that the homeworld was sacred, that serving its representatives in Outer Space a great honor for as long as I can remember. And here are, days or hours away from the greatest space battle since the founding of the Alliance." Walker saw her squeeze her arms through her sleeves. "So much for the age of perpetual peace in the Earth Sphere."

"But that can't be it, can it?"

Soletta turned back to him abruptly. "Excuse me?"

"That can't be it. What you've described is political, not personal. It doesn't sound like something that would drive someone like you to deep-held resentment," Walker explained carefully.

"Someone like me? An officer, or a woman?" Soletta countered.

Walker took a few seconds to answer. "Both, Captain."

She smirked. "Maybe things _are _different on Earth, but here in the colonies, it's enough. It's enough that we're fighting a war that should never have happened, but on top of that, there are lots of things _I hate_," she said, with strong emphasis. "I _hate _that President Septim has to chose between fighting all of Earth and unconditional surrender. I _hate _how the enemy—OZ—has no problem cutting deals on Earth but refuses to negotiate in Outer Space, leading us to this _ridiculous _point. I even hate how we've become 'Noventans', because the cause of petty nationalism is the only way to preserve the ideals of the United Earth Sphere Alliance. But most of all, I _hate _the fact that we're losing to an army led by a two-faced sociopath."

Soletta uncrossed her arms and leaned forward against the guardrail. Walker kept staring at her back, once again speculating how much force it would take to push someone off. She had a very rigid grip on the railing now.

"And what about your fallen comrades, Captain?"

"I don't hate OZ for that," she muttered softly. "There's no reason to. All of them, every one of us, chose to fight. We knew what would happen to us when we became a combat unit known as a mobile suit pilot. It's just like you," she said, looking at him.

_Actually, I never expected _this _to happen. _

"I know that look. You don't believe me."

Walker's expression immediately changed to one of surprise. He wasn't aware he had given a particular 'look'. "I'm sorry, Captain?"

"Last time I went into combat, I disabled the largest carrier in OZ's space fleet, the _Over the Rainbow_, and hundreds of sailors and officers gone with it. That cost us some of the best space pilots to ever serve in the Alliance," she said, her voice abruptly switching from boastful to resentful. "You're a company-grade officer, you must have had that experience."

"Actually, I've never lost a pilot as a flight lieutenant."

She rolled her eyes. "What about before that? What about the Gundams?"

He thought of the Middle Eastern Air Army, of the dissolved 4th Special Airborne Division, and the remains of mobile suits and military hardware scattered across the cement landscape at East Corsica before being swept up and hauled off for recycling, before the memory seemed to evaporate into a fuzzy, distorted blur. He couldn't bring it back.

Soletta continued. "Of course we'll die in combat, that's the whole reason the Republican Guard exists. It's why armies and divisions and pilots exist. Maybe you've never thought about your own mortality, but that doesn't change the situation itself. I'm_ going_ to die for the Alliance, I just want to make sure I die _well_." She turned her whole body to face him, pointing an accusing finger into his chest. "And you, what do you plan to die for, Flight Lieutenant? Or is it _who_?"

He'd remained quiet until then. "I don't know," he said, feeling himself caught in a lie.

Abruptly, Soletta gave a knowing, mischievous smile while leaning towards him. "Oh really, Walker?"

Walker glanced back at her, not responding to the taunt, and she turned away after a moment.

"I've heard somewhere that patriotism is a vice. Here and now, apathy is worse. But you can keep your apathy. Shouldn't a warrior die fighting?"

He responded to this one. "I don't think we're warriors—we're professional officers. In a civilized age, there's a difference between the two."

"And what's that difference?" Soletta asked, before releasing the guardrail and answering. "A professional is someone given a task to complete, who studies that task, takes it apart like a broken clock, systematically, deliberately, and then completes it in as sensible and practical a manner as possible."

She twisted her face in distaste. "I can't say how many thousands of times I've heard that, but I do remember the first person who said it, a Specials Troop instructor from the Lake Victoria Academy. Well, he was right, I have a job to do: I will destroy as many OZ mobile suits I can for as long as I can. And I'm sorry we forced you to be part of that, but not that sorry."

**IV**

In his office in L3-X-18999, Captain Andropov, of Space Forces Engineering Corps, was speaking with the No. 13 Mobile Suit Factory head floor manager, a much older but still fit middle-aged man who wore a working suit over a collared shirt and tie, along with the characteristic green-striped white helmet. Though he wasn't a military engineer, Andropov respected the floor manager as a competent, no-nonsense manager and skilled bureaucrat who kept his factory workers in fighting trim like the military personnel whom they nominally were.

"I still think that flexible scheduling is useless on-site, or anywhere factory personnel can't freely associate with the local population."

"Well, you'll get no argument from me on that, but I do think…" he said before a beep from his desk interrupted him. Andropov leaned towards one of the two panel monitors sitting on his desk. "I'm sorry, but it appears to be a secure line, I can't imagine it wouldn't be urgent…"

"Of course, of course," the manager mumbled, rising to his feet and leaving the room promptly. With a few taps at his keyboard, Andropov opened up a new window

**OZ 98**

**MO-V **

**SOUND ONLY**

"Sernan? Is that you, old boy?" Andropov asked.

"_Captain Andropov_," the voice at the other end responded. "_Sorry for ringing you up out of the blue like this, but it's important._"

It was definitely Lieutenant Ron Sernan, a familiar face from the Engineering Corps on Earth. "I'm sure it is—where are you now? Last time I saw you must have been at Lake Victoria, during the attack." He swallowed uncomfortably, pushing away vivid memories of fire against a night sky. "I thought you were back on Earth with the rest of the Seventh Division."

"_Like it says, sir, MO-V. The _Libra _construction site_."

"Really?" Andropov asked, genuinely surprised.

"_Really. Honestly, from your letters, I only had a general idea of where you were posted too, sir. Looks like we've both got secreting postings above our pay grade, Captain_."

"Maybe. What can I do for you?"

"_It's like this—obviously, we've got a lot of equipment going through MO-V for the final assembly process, but I've been seeing something that bothers you. Do you know anything about GND?_"

Andropov scratched the side of his head just over his right ear. "Only the minimum that was required of me. Gravitationally-engineered Universal Neutral Discharge polymer, the major ingredient in that polymeric alloy, 'Gundanium', along with titanium, nickel, et cetera. Like the name says, it has to be produced in very low gravity conditions, something to do with the final deoxidizing process. Very strong tensile strength, very high heat resistance, non-conductive and radiation-absorbent. And very expensive," he added.

"_Exactly, that's what I know too. You read the report by Walker from Corsica?_"

"I must have. I'm sure that's word for word what it said."

"_I think so. Anyway, there's a lot of that Gundanium going into the Marius Crater Factory on Luna, under Colonel Villemont._"

"I'll have to take your word for it, the factory managers don't really stay in touch—but what does that have to do with anything, I thought you were out in the frontier?"

"_I am, which is why something that happened here seems very, very strange. Can you look up the shipping manifests for a merchant vessel, the _Regulus_? I've got the registration number too, I'll send it over_." On Andropov's display, another window popped up, this one reading a long string of numbers and letters. "_Sorry for putting you through this, but I don't think the databases I have access to here are going to be any use_."

"What makes you say that?" Andropov asked, using his nearby touchpad to copy the string of digits and letters into a different application on his computer.

"_If I'm right, the reason will be the first thing you see_."

The results came back quickly. "Here it is: Merchant Vessel _Regulus_, registration number, et cetera, port of registry colony L4-B-0940…owned by Wincomfleet."

"_The Winner Corporation's Commercial Fleet_," Sernan repeated.

"Even still, I'm sure the Winner Corporation still owns half the extraterrestrial merchant marine. What's so special about the _Regulus_?"

"_Is there anything about its recent cargos or assignments?_"

"Nothing besides the predominant route inside the fourth Langrange point." Andropov paused and frowned. "Do you think the Winner Corporation's smuggling Gundanium?"

"_At least the _Regulus_ is._"

"Did you see it? How much are we talking about here?"

"_I'm not sure. Less than ten tonnes._"

"That's…enough to build _one_ mobile suit."

"_I know, that was what I was thinking. GND polymer isn't technically contraband—it's not an explosive or radioactive or anything like that, it's just _only _has military applications—and the assumption was that if it could only be made in space, it wasn't any more than an expensive novelty. That was ten years ago, at least. Now look at us._"

Andropov put his hand to his head again. "I'll say, quaking in our riding boots about the ghosts of Gundams we've already killed," he mumbled, again thinking of Lake Victoria. "This sort of thing should be the Military Commissariat's area, but they're waist deep with Operation 'Citadel'."

"_Times like this, I miss Alliance Military Intelligence_."

"Don't be so certain—if they were doing their job, none of us would be here right now. Including the Gundams," Andropov surmised bleakly. "So, the _Regulus _was at MO-V…do you have any idea about their destination?"

"_Only that it was somewhere in L4, and even that's a stretch. I was hoping you could help me_, Captain."

"I would if I could. What I _can _do is route this up the hierarchy—I'm in regular contact with a Squadron Commander Andretti, from the Lunar Military District."

"_Luna_?"

"Apparently he did such a good job helping end the BACD crisis that they promoted him permanently to be Une's official rep to the Colonial militia forces there. At the very least he _has _to be interested in this, now that that it's his backyard. And you?"

"_I can't leave MO-V, not that I want to—it's decent work over here. But someone has to know._"

"Good. Don't leave: I'll try and put you in contact with Andretti, keep either of us posted if you see any more shipments."

The secure line disconnected, and Andropov rested his elbows on his desk. On the opposite side of his monitors, a scaled model of a OZ-17MS 'Serpent' on its stand, posed in mid-flight holding a beam cannon. _Maybe we should start production sooner rather than later. _

**V**

"Lieutenant Colonel North, Flight Officer Kaneshiro Kanna reporting."

North looked up from his seat at the desk in Major Bremer's office in _Barge_, as did Major Bremer himself. In her violet normal suit, helmet under her hand, Kanna stood saluting smartly in the doorway.

Bremer was looking at North, who didn't salute back. "Take a seat, Kanna. We need to talk about quite a few things."

Kanna instead chose to stand with her back against one of the old fashioned astronomical maps of the Solar System Bremer had hanging from the walls as décor. North didn't seem to care, instead taking a folder.

"First: Walker's alive. The Red Cross confirmed him presence on L1-D-120 along with a number of other prisoners of war. He's in _acceptable _health, albeit clearly overworked." He opened the folder and pointing to a number of received images. "A plan by CAST to grab him along with some other prisoners was called off when Walker was already boarded on a helicopter by the time they got there. I'm sorry it didn't work," he said, a little helplessly.

Kanna clenched her jaw, not responding.

"But we'll have more chances as we move deeper into the D-Area. And at least we know where Walker is, roughly speaking, and I'm told it's unlikely he'd be moved from D-120. The Red Cross report suggested the ex-Alliance isn't threatening its prisoners of war with violence," he told her, holding up a copy of the report before setting it back.

"Next, I you want to know about the new weapon that was used by Winthrop against that defensive platform," North began.

"I really would," she admitted.

North reached forward and touched part of Bremer's desk. "Gentlemen, would you both please come in?"

Two more young men entered, both wearing their hunter greens, before standing at attention. The thinner of the two wore a sling for his left arm. Kanna recognized the other one.

North introduced them anyway. "Pilot Officer Liu, of the Colonial Ninety-First Engineering Battalion, and Flight Officer Nichol, whom you've already met. Both men are posted to _Barge _for the time being."

Kanna stared at Liu, but remained silent. _I've heard that name before. _

"Good to see you again, Kaneshiro," Nichol said, sticking out his hand which Kanna relented and shook. "And I'm sorry about Walker."

"Yes, but in the meantime, they have something to show you in person."

"Yes ma'am," Liu chirped, apparently not bothered by his arm. "You wanted to see Septim's Telescopes?"

Kanna looked at the young pilot, confused. Five minutes and a three security checkpoints later, and they were inside _Barge_'s most secure weapons silo. They took a guide rail down through a maintenance shaft and into a large, cylindrical chamber, stopping in the middle.

"Damn, it's dark in here," Kanna mumbled.

"One second…" Nichol responded, fumbling with the controls inside the lift car before flipping a switch. The entire chamber lit up, and they found themselves in a medium-size chamber surrounded by a dozen mobile weapons, like the missile launchers carried by Leos, but much longer.

"What are…these?" Kanna asked.

"Septim's Telescopes," Nichol mumbled. "They're now operational."

"The Type 81 Single Rocket Launch System, ma'am," Liu began proudly.

"…each equipped with an eight-hundred millimeter multiple-warhead thermonuclear torpedo," North finished for him. "Short range, tactical use."

He squeezed the material of his normal suit. "It's the 'strategic' part of the 'strategic aerospace' label."

"Excuse me?" Kanna asked incredulously.

"Any non-missile military unit armed with thermonuclear weapons is automatically labeled 'strategic' regardless of their size," Nichol explained to her while she leaned over the rails to get a better look. "The Type 81 SRLS, named after the year it was first deployed, was a leftover from the more violent fighting in Outer Space for the Alliance. It was intended as a nuclear option that would capitalize on the versatility of mobile suits, the limitations of which had it superseded by the orbital silo system. It had a variety of nicknames, the most popular of which was _Septim's Telescopes_, prompted by both its resemblance to an optical telescope and the macabre notion that they allowed General Septim to 'see all'."

"So how are they any different than a normal nuclear torpedo?" she asked.

"The torpedoes used by the navy must have an effective range of a hundred kilometers or more," Nichol said, leaning back. "That means a single warhead atop a very long launch vehicle, with further maneuvering rockets. Each one of these has a much shorter range, and practically no maneuverability capability—you need line-of-sight to use them."

Kanna stared directly at Nichol. "More or less."

"So a regular torpedo might cripple a ship, but one of these _could_ destroy multiple ships within the blast radius. You'd seriously ruin some ships in formation or in space dock."

Nichol hit another switch and the elevator descended further down the open shaft. "Of course, using one of these on or near a colony would be extremely controversial. And using it in combat would require the mobility of the Taurus."

"Which is why the Seventh Division is the first unit to deploy this weapon," he told her with a grin.

Kanna gave him a look that quickly wiped the grin from his face. "Hopefully your comrades in the division are good enough with their beam cannons that they won't need them again."

"We'll see," she mumbled. "You don't think throwing all of our hydrogen bombs at D-120 is going to maybe put those prisoners at risk, _Chūsa_?"

North gave a self-deprecating grin that Kanna didn't enjoy. "We're taking that into consideration as well. But if you're asking me if I'll use tactical nuclear weapons to save lives in the Seventh Division, I will." He dropped the grin. "Lieutenant colonels have authorization to use nuclear weapons available to them _with _consideration for civilian casualties. We don't have any nuclear treaties with the Republic of Noventa. Hell, a few weeks ago Lady Une threatened an all-out missile attack on multiple colonies."

North shot Liu a discreet glance, who was apparently taking a visual inventory of the weapons.

"Now, I'd like you to answer one of my questions, Kaneshiro—how good is your aim under fire?"

**VI**

Donning an industrial respirator and goggles, Walker politely requested permission from Chief Null to join in the electrostatic painting process for Soletta's completed mobile armor. Null was happy to oblige him, seemingly swept up in the excitement of EA-01MA1 being classified operational, which he recounted to Walker repeatedly.

"So, after I couldn't reach Admiral Arroway, I spoke to Lieutenant General Gennaro—that's Captain Soletta's uncle, by the way, and commander of the Republican Guard—who went ahead and approved its use in the corps. So it's official!" he said through his respirator before handing Walker one of the spray guns.

"I see," Walker mumbled in response through his own mask.

"I know you're obviously not happy about this, but surely you must be at least _interested _in how it's going to perform. You were one of the last engineers to work on it."

"Perhaps," Walker conceded. "Call it pride of labor."

"That's the spirit," Null announced, smacking Walker on the back sharply. "I don't need to tell you that this is a close a christening that any mobile armor gets nowadays, you know?"

"Does that mean no champagne?" Walker asked, straight-faced. Null stared back at him through his goggles before bursting out into difficult, masked laughter.

"I tell you Walker, you're still surprising me, you know that?" he said as he left towards one of the painting gantries. Another respirator-wearing worker came up, gesturing to Walker's sprayer. "You know how to use one of those?"

"Conceptually yes," Walker admitted. "I was never much into the finishing process."

The worker checked his watch and probably frowned. "Just watch us do it, and try and be careful. We're supposedly charged to repel the paint, but it'll still stick to clothing—and it's quick drying."

"Really? I don't believe that."

Through his goggles, the worker gave him a look, pointed the sprayer's nozzle at Walker's left hand which lay flat against part of his working suit, and sprayed a second-long burst of paint at it, turning his left hip and upper leg deep crimson. Walker raised his gloved hand and looked down at the accordingly-shaped unpainted spot on his clothing, then looked up. "I stand corrected."

The worker rolled his eyes before leaving Walker for his own gantry. Ignoring his half-paint covered left hand, Walker grabbed some of the paint line to his sprayer gun, flung it under his arm and left for his own gantry.

Along with almost a dozen other laborers, the prepared mobile armor was quickly doused with liberal use of the sprayers, charged paint particles evenly sticking to the various anti-beam coating treated armor surfaces. Walker found that it was not particularly difficult work, even as he moved much more slowly than Null's professionals, who rapidly and efficiently coated a surface before quickly moving on. The planned scheme itself was extremely simple, leaving almost the entire mobile armor an eye-catching dark red except for a few white guiding stripes along the more aerodynamic surfaces. Cooling vents and certain other surfaces were already covered, not intended to be painted.

_Then again, even they must think this will be Chrysanthemum's only battle. _Walker stood at a gantry at the extreme bow of the mobile armor, not far from the dry dock's inner bulkhead door. He had barely moved when a blaring alarm made him jump, leading some paint to be sprayed at the gantry floor. It was same alarm he'd heard day earlier, when he'd started his work in the dock, accompanied by the lights lining the chamber ceiling turning red.

"Oh, what the hell is it now?" one of the painters asked angrily.

Null, his gantry poised near the mobile armor's core further back, looked around.

"Well, Chief?" another asked.

"I guess they're here," Null said, sounding beleaguered. "Which means Captain Soletta'll be here soon too. Let's get a move on, people, this is the final act!" he ordered more confidently.

From his spot at the bow, Walker looked at the nearest alarm siren, mounted adjacent to the bulkhead door control station. He then turned to the closed-circuit camera on the ceiling directly above him before turning back to his sprayer gun and squeezing the long, flat trigger along the grip.

In the space outside L1-D-120, the situation was escalating rapidly, as several squadrons of Pioneer Leo Troops rapidly ascended to their defensive positions along the colony torus and in nearby space platforms. One eight-engine mobile suit mothership launched with emergency power from a military hangar, passing between a pair of missile destroyers moving in to be rearmed.

Checking the seals of his normal suit one last time, Major Khattāb watched the support crews finish their final checks on his violet mobile suit before he pulled himself towards it on a tether.

"Major, we're ready for you."

Pulling on his helmet, he drifted into his cockpit, secure the magnetic seals, and gave the crew chief a thumbs up. The hatch close swiftly, the cockpit displays falling into place and avionics coming to life. His forward display immediately relayed a waiting video link over military band.

"_Are you ready?_"

"Admiral Arroway, ma'am—as ready as I ever expect I'll be," he admitted to her, not saluting.

Her surroundings indicated she was still in the Naval Headquarters inside the colony. Her not-so-assuring smiling continued. "_What if I promised to make you Controller General of the Defense Industry if you come back alive?_"

"That's not that attractive an offer, Defense Minister, ma'am," was all he could say. While waiting for the rest of the unit to finish launch procedures, he kept squeezing his arm to keep from shaking in fear.

Arroway gave a familiar, un-comforting tilt of her of her head before the line disconnected. Khattāb sighed deeply before adjusting his helmet and looking around. _It's the same cockpit as a Leo. _

Having cleared the perimeter of ships, the carrier's doors swung open and it proceeded to offload its payload of twelve mobile suits, in six pairs, before firing its smaller retrograde thrusters. At the head of a formation of eleven OZ-06SMS troops armed with beam rifles and missile launchers, a single Taurus mobile suit, painted violet to match its comrades' machines, took position far forward of the colony.

"_All units, large numbers of hostiles incoming. Altitude and weapons restrictions are released!_"

"_Centurion Actual to all call signs, move into positions and watch the incoming vectors. Centurion Flight will draw them into the crossfire and cut them off. EWACS, can you identify the enemy unit_?"

A EWACS Space Leo, waiting safely next to a frigate in D-120's shadow, replied. "_EWACS Kestrel to Centurion Actual, we're checking IFF now…it's the First Recon Battalion, repeat, confirming for OZ First Recon Battalion. Mark one-eight, incoming from three-two-three._"

Major Khattāb jerked forward against his seat restraints before forcing himself back. "All call signs, the plan's the same: draw them in, do not allow enemy Taurus troops to pull you out! Ballista Actual, report!"

"_This is Ballista 1-1, we're still setting up the solid state lasers. Can you buy us some more time_?"

"Acknowledged, Ballista Actual. Who knows, for once we might even get lucky and not run into the black guy and the white guy," Khattāb replied before leaning forward on both flight sticks and racing ahead of the other troops.

"_EWACS Kestrel to all call signs, friendlies inbound, heading zero-five-zero._"

Several thousand kilometers past the naval perimeter around D-120, past the array of recon satellites and automated defense weapons, eighteen OZ-12SMS 'Taurus' troops in fighter mode separated from six rapid deployment carriers and went into loose formation. In the lead mobile suit, Squadron Commander Ogasawara checked her oxygen hose before tapping her MFD control keys.

"Hostiles incoming, heading three-four-nine, mark four-four. Enemy field command is likely in captured Taurus, designated EA-12SMS. Break formation and make some noise, we've got friendlies inside the colony we want hearing us. Estoc Flight, go about and flank those two gunships!"

"_Affirmative, Damocles Actual. Taking the vector._"

"I'll go after the fieldcom."

"_Acknowledged, Damocles Actual! Approaching the perimeter!_"

An ex-Alliance patrol group moving in formation closed in on the perimeter before angling itself to initiate barrage fire in the direction of the enemy. "_OZ Troops have crossed the minefield! Repeat, OZ Space Troops have crossed the minefield!_"

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_Walker makes another Ernst Jünger reference, reminding us how much a hero he would be to young military men and women. Lucky him! On the other hand, w__hen she observes that patriotism is a vice, Soletta is referring to the more-beloved Oscar Wilde, who described patriotism as the vice of nations in the late 19th century (famously quoted, approximately, by inimitable Sean Connery in one of his later film roles). For an (alleged) fanatic, she's quite self-aware, isn't she?_

_To this day, I still can't decide what money is called in the After Colony setting, and with 'credits' sounding too much like _Star Wars _(and simultaneously too stupidly unoriginal) while 'gilla', used briefly in _Gundam ZZ_, is simply an ugly name, even for a local currency. Maybe all currencies are local in the After Colony Earth Sphere, and major exchanges are done with conversions or in non-monetary values. D-120 having its own paper money makes perfect sense, in either case. _

_Major Khattāb's nicknames for the second Mercurius and Vayeate pair (done in the colors they appear in the _G-Unit _manga) is a small reference to a line uttered by Beck in regards to a showdown between two massive mecha in the final episode of the series_ The Big O._ It's still a well-remembered show in the United States in particular. _

_Though I've been somewhat inconsistent in that regard, EWACS is an acronym (not to be confused with an initialism, like 'CIA') for "Early Warning And Control System", very similar to the real-life "Airborne (Early) Warning and Control System", or AWACS. Of course, right now 'airborne' is an accurate descriptor for all such systems in military use, since none are deployed in outer space, but in the context of _Gundam Wing_, there is some practical purpose to tediously distinguish between AWACS as the terrestrial variety of EWACS military options, some of which aren't in the air at all. I'll need to try and remember to be consistent about that distinction. _


	48. Red Dragon's Rise, I

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 48 – Red Dragon's Rise, I**

The early-Alliance monument to the Cosmonaut I. L. Khanov, sitting on a flower-ringed pedestal in the middle of a major roundabout, was one of the major features of L1-D-120's Old Town that distinguished it from its counterparts in C-102 and elsewhere in L1. Currently the roundabout was empty excluding a group of twenty Reserve Army soldier who marched in two lines past a quad-barreled autocannon emplacement surrounded by sandbags, stern expressions hidden by steel helmets.

"_This is a general evacuation order: for their own safety, all civilians must report to their designated shelters within their community. This is not a drill. This is a general evacuation order…_" a monotone voice warned over the speakers affixed to lamp posts and traffic lights. As the gun crew waited behind their autocannons, one of them turned in the direction of a loud rumbling, wondering if it was from something on the outside of the colony like a moored ship. Instead, he spotted a large trailer truck come up the avenue, followed by another, and then another.

"Mobile suits," he mumbled, pushing up the rim of his helmet to get a better look.

Slowly, loudly and deliberately, the trailer trucks used their cranes to lift battle-worn Alliance Army mobile suits, OZ-06MS 'Leos' from the Continental American Military District, many with the Utahan Armed Forces insignia still visible on their shields. Only a few had proper Republic of Noventa insignia, but all featured a large white number one visible on either their shields or shoulder-joint armor, accompanied by a colored squadron stripe. The 1st Mobile Suit Battalion of the Reserve Army. The first unit to be raised carefully stepped off the avenue and took a position in an otherwise-empty parking lot adjacent to a department store facing the roundabout. It leveled its beam cannon just past the building, the oxidized barrel reflected in the window panes.

Outside, more Noventan mobile suits, these of the Republican Guard Corps, were fully-entangled with OZ's 1st Recon Battalion, exchanging beam fire as defending warships moved into position. At the rear, acting as an impromptu shield for the short-range EWACS mobile suit, the EASFS _Salzburg_ watched as OZ's more maneuverable machines literally flew circles around their targets, only briefly firing in controlled bursts.

"Are those mobile dolls?" the escort carrier's commander asked, trying to keep up with them.

"We can't be certain, but their heat signatures didn't resemble automated troops when they first entered the battlefield," a sensor officer explained. "It_is _possible this is just a feint, and that these are mobile dolls."

A Pioneer Leo troop was briefly made visible when it exploded after getting both its arms shot off, turning into a glowing blip for a few seconds. "I was under the impression the First Recon Battalion didn't _need _mobile dolls, but what do they plan to do with just eighteen mobile suits?" the commander asked.

In the cockpit of the lead OZ-12SMSK, Squadron Commander Ogasawara rocked back and forth with the opposing g-forces pulling at her body, D-120's torus ring spinning in and out of view. A fleeing mobile suit popped into view a few seconds longer—she moved her reticle over it, squeezed the trigger, and split it cleaning in half with her beam rifle, its arms tumbling free at the shoulders and trailing fire. Except for a few useless patrol ships firing in her general direction, her machine was clear.

"Damocles Actual to Damocles 1-2, you're on point. Estoc 2-1, you copy?"

"_I copy, Damocles Actual!_"

"I need you to cut me a path far deep. I'm going to take a closer look."

Estoc 2-1's response was quick but worried. "_Affirmative. Sending you a vector._"

She heard Flight Officer Syed Khan's response immediately. "_What the hell, Emi? What about those beam cannons?_"

"You worry about the patrol ships, I'll worry about the cannons!" she fired right back, pulling the lever to set her machine back into fighter mode. Towards the rear of the forward defenders, Estoc 2-1 poured beam rifle fire into three-man Alliance gunship before it exploded helplessly in mid-turn, then flashed its monoeye at the approaching command mobile suit as it briefly leveled in flight to scare off a pair of advancing Space Leos.

"_You're clear, Damocles Actual, make it count!_"

Emi nodded in her cockpit. _You know, for a unit with our name, it's amazing how little recon we do sometimes. _The dorsal face of the torus ring grew larger and larger as her Taurus darted through the screen of anti-aircraft beam fire coming up at her. Estoc 2-1 gave some retaliatory fire from its own position, but the real cover provided by her own equipment: a massive L-12 'Lyman' ECM pod she carried in the place of her beam cannon.

"_Oh, what the hell is wrong with her_?" Estoc 2-2 cried out, joining its flight leader to supply covering fire.

In his cockpit, Estoc 2-1's pilot squinted through his polarized helmet before undoing the seals and yanking it off, upon which he resumed squeezing his trigger over and over again, filling his cockpit with flashes of light. "The squadron commander knows what she's doing: L1-D-120's anti-aircraft density is almost as heavy as a battleship—if this ECM isn't enough, she's gonna' find out real fast!"

Her jaw clenched, Emi pulled back on her control sticks at the last second. Her view drifted from the superstructure plane to the outer wall, with several large, rectangular hangars visible with their armored shutters closed. Still being pulled back into her seat as her Taurus continued accelerating, she counted down from a three before jerking her sticks forward. Her mobile suit shot away, flying parallel to the bracing arm before fleeing the colony's shadow.

"_Hostile with jamming, mark one, approaching high! Tracking visually!_" Centurion Actual announced as its pilot hastily turned his mobile suit's cranium compartment along with the rest of the torso to keep the darting object in its field of view, a pattern of useless beam fire marking its position.

"_What the hell was he doing?_" its pilot heard over the Noventan combat channel. "_Is he setting up for an attack run?_"

Major Khattāb checked his tactical display. "There's nothing in that area he could hit, but it looks like he's towing equipment not a beam cannon. I'm going after him!" he announced, pushing forward on the throttle and sending his own Taurus after Emi's. After a few seconds of his venier boosters burning at full power, he swung around, aimed his beam rifle and began firing.

"_I've got the leader!_" Emi announced excitedly. She flicked a switch, jettisoning her ECM pod and lowering her machine's mass. After speeding up on her verniers for a few seconds, she then killed the throttle, swung her machine around, and fired all of her attitude control motors, sending her shooting past the other Taurus as she turned her machine around. Khattāb saw her and did the same, and the two began spiraling around each other back in the direction of the colony itself.

While the two Taurii continued their violent _pas de deux_, spitting unending yellow-white fire at each other, Captain Soletta ran into space traffic control for the military docks, already clad in her normal suit. "What's going on, where's OZ?"

The lieutenant on-duty saluted. "You're looking at them, Captain."

She looked confused rather than relieved. "This is it? No cruisers or carriers?"

"Just their own Taurus carriers, and those are hanging back, ma'am."

"How many friendlies on defense?"

The lieutenant looked at a nearby monitor. "Aside from the fleet presence, we counted fifty-three friendly mobile suits, along with two escort carriers, six gunboats and some number of missile boats—of course, those missile boats are useless against mobile suits."

"Counted?"

"Along with all the missile boats, we've counted at least thirteen friendlies shot down from the First Separate Battalion, with no enemy losses," the lieutenant said, jumping in his boots when Soletta pounded her fist against the nearby computer console and turned to it, saying nothing. He stared at her, watching as her jaw clenched into a tight-lipped smile and snapped back into attention when her eyes wandered to him.

"Come on, Umar, kill him already…"

Centurion Actual was holding together structurally as it continued its erratic dodging further and further along the colony's _z_-axis, but the g-forces along made it tremendously difficult for its pilot to line up an accurate shot on the rival black Taurus. The best Khattāb could manage was to keep juking, no matter how difficult it was, and keep from being shot in return when he got a chance to aim.

"_Beagle 1-3 to Centurion Actual, coming to assist!_" A lone Pioneer Leo, armed with a missile launcher, had closed in on their position from the cover of a defensive turret.

"_Keep your distance!_" The order came too late, as the black Taurus flung itself past the Pioneer Leo in the middle of its maneuver and, barely adjusting its aim, fired a pair of shots that crippled the mobile suit and forced it to drop its weapon. For good measure, the Taurus put another shot into it, leaving a burning hole in its booster pack, when it passed a second time.

"Come on, let's do this, just you and me," Emi mumbled to herself.

"_Squadcom, how long do we have to keep this up_?"

"Just a few more minutes! If you're taking damage, pull out!" she ordered. "I'm going to wreck this bastard if it kills me." This was an extraordinary scenario, different than engaging the much slower but more numerous Space Leo troops that made up all of the Alliance Space Mobile Suit Forces. She'd always considered this encounter a faint possibility, and now she was going to deal with it.

In the STC, EWACS Kestrel was heard panicking. "_This is insane, they're still at it!_"

"Tower to Ballista Actual, can you give Centurion Actual any sort of long-range fire support?

"_This is Ballista Actual, our lasers were intended to be used against the shielded assault team!_"

"Well, can you aim in the right damn direction?" the ranking STC officer shot back.

"_Yes sir, we can do that, sir!_" On the long, narrow catapult of the EAFSF _Amalthea_, four Space Leo troops, having erected a pair of ship-powered solid state lasers on small tripods, took careful aim before firing together. The barrels of the cannons flashed green, and downrange, Emi spotted a green twinkling out of the corner of her eye.

"_What the hell is that?_" As she swung away from Centurion 1-1's fire, her mobile suit briefly fell into the laser's path, setting fire to the thin anti-beam coating on the chassis and setting off alarms. Emi cursed and deployed chaff, a cloud of metal fragments which burst into flames in numerous sparks as it dispersed the beams. The engaging mobile suit saw its opportunity and took it, dramatically slowing with a retrograde burn and putting the black mobile suit into its HUD's boresight. Once the aiming reticle was over it, Khattāb squeezed the trigger. A shot struck the enemy, just barely absorbed by the right arm and sending the beam rifle flying, completely blasting away the manipulator and destroying the elbow servometer: a glancing but still perilous hit.

"I got him!" Khattāb said to himself. In that few seconds, his machine had drifted into the cloud of chaff left which temporarily effected his sensors. In that short moment, instead of pulling away, the enemy Taurus charged him, brandishing its port arm fin. Unsure how to respond, Khattāb incorrectly defended himself with the arm that would have carried a shoulder-mounted shield option on the OZ-06SMS—the extremely hard arm fin crushed through his his left manipulator before bashing it into his mooneye, plunging his cockpit into static and intermittent darkness.

"_Centurion Actual is hit!_" The two mobile suits from Ballista Flight firmed another burst from their lasers—this time, as soon as she spotted the green twinkle, Emi flung her machine away at full throttle, leaving the crippled enemy behind. "_I repeat, Centurion Actual is hit_."

"Watch your lasers, there's friendlies on that vector!" the STC officer shouted, before turning to his nearest communications officer. "Switch from THF to EHF, that hit might have damaged his receiver."

"Done, sir!"

"Centurion Actual, this is Military Quarter Tower, do you read us? Military Quarter Tower to Major Khattāb, please respond!" The ranking officer glanced at a video feed from their primary telescope, which showed a brief but delayed yellow flash in the area where Centurion Actual had been crippled. "Centurion Actual, can you read us?"

He turned back to the junior officer. "Cycle through everything and keep that on repeat until he answers," he ordered, fixing his space forces uniform's stiff collar before turning. "Don't worry, Captain, after a fight like that, the first thing he'd lose is his radio. We'll find him and…"

When he found Captain Soletta had already left the room, he stopped.

In the cockpit of her own damaged machine, Emi jerkily undid the magnetized seals and yanked off her helmet, letting her long, dark hair float free before taking several deep breaths, feeling her chest push up and down on her normal suit breastplate. With a flip of a switch, she toggled her HUD from air-air gun mode to navigation, as the rest of First Recon Battalion's pilots followed her.

Flight Officer Motta pinged her. "_Did you see that? Nabiki called it._"

Syed Khan answered first. "_Their command's getting sloppy, they shouldn't have sent out flight leader out in that machine without more cover. _Or _that was all the cover they could afford._"

"Best way to kill an ace: force them to scramble where they don't want to. Whoever was in that captured Taurus, he was good," Emi admitted aloud.

"_You beat him though_." The response was from F/O Tsujimoto.

"Only because he didn't know how to use the thing. If D-120 has any more aces like him, it'll be a problem."

**II**

"Division commander on the bridge!"

Aboard the OZSS _Europa, _Lieutenant Colonel North entered a bridge of officers standing at attention, excluding one. In a raised command seat near the entrance, the Baroness of Oviedo sat in her black normal suit, legs crossed. Her younger sister stood nearby at attention, wearing a white variation of the same suit.

"Please don't get up on my account," North said quickly to no one in particular before turning to the _Europa_'s captain and shaking his hand after he lowered it from a salute. "How's the situation?"

"We've severed all four of D-120's inter-colony supply lines, and the comm ships are moving into position. We're expecting a complete blackout to begin in the one-hundred forty-three minutes," the captain explained, approaching Lieutenant Colonel Armonia's raised seat and turning the screen towards North. The screen indicated L1-D-120's position relative to the other D-Area colonies, the scale rapidly increasing until all the local colonies were visible. Blue points on elliptical paths indicated the moving position of the communications control ships.

"That's assuming their last carrier, the _Africana_, doesn't leave its defensive position. Its mobile suit compliment could easily overwhelm one of those comm ship groups."

"Second Division has two companies dispersed to provide cover along with the picket ships. At the very least, we'll know when Arroway makes a move. Though I am surprise she hasn't done so already."

"Give her time to change her mind," Lady Soris jeered, easing into black normal suit. "The Recon Battalion units sent out to D-120 are returning, some damage but no losses."

The ship's captain walked over to the navigation station, and North leaned towards Soris, speaking quietly. "How many did we get in the last grab?"

"Only one, Flight Officer Abed from First Division," Soris whispered back. "They think they'll have another window to try soon."

"That's good, given what they're trying."

"That's high praise from someone who tries as hard as you do," Soris grinned back.

North matched her grin for a moment. "I deserve that. I've already written my resignation for Treize."

"You're going to go through with that?"

"Why wouldn't I? I bring gifts from _Barge_: Seventh Division now has fourteen variable-yield thermonuclear torpedoes."

She stretched her arms. "I guess we needn't worry about defensive positions anymore."

North crossed his own over his chest. "No, we won't."

She gave him a knowing look, which North immediately disliked. "What?"

"This isn't about the platforms, is it? Not _really. _There are other ways for the strongest military force in Earth Sphere to destroy a few armored defense platforms and space stations."

"What are you going on about?" he growled quietly.

"How as your meeting with Trowa Barton?" she asked. By now, her grin reached across her face.

North said nothing, twisting his head slowly in a full circle. "That's the problem with the military nowadays: no goddamn secrets," he muttered before looking back at her. "He's like you, without the wisdom, personality or charisma."

He cut Soris off. "_Don't _take it as a compliment," he preempted her. "I'll fall on my sword, if that's what you're asking. You know who they'll have replace me, right?"

Lieutenant Colonel Armonia gave a loud, disconcerting laugh that caught the attention of the bridge for a few seconds. "Really?"

"Who else? Enjoy your last days of playing the warrior queen, Soris."

"Captain, sir! First Recon's returning from their raid, no losses but coming in for repairs and refit."

The captain nodded at his executive officer and turned to the two colonels. "Sirs, if you'll excuse me."

Soris gave a nod and smile before turning back to North. "What now?"

"Our friends on the inside?"

"They're standing by, sir," the younger Armonia sister interjected sharply.

North had almost forgot she was there. "Thank you Luna. Let's make it happen."

**III**

Far removed from the colony's densest urban neighborhoods and the larger commercial centers, the D-120 Climate Administration Bureau was headquartered in dome-shaped building with a single tall antenna rising from the center complex, on grounds where a major highway passed through a large public park. The off- and on-ramps were now barricaded with a light military police presence with a number of troop trucks and 4WD scout cars.

From the direction of the empty coffee-shop, Major Cebotari and Second Lieutenant Parsons took their illegally-procured Climate Administration passes, still featuring the photographs of their original owners, and pinned them to their blazers. Crossing the short gap between the street to the perimeter fence, E.P. dragged a ladder he'd hidden in the children's playground, extended it to its full length, and held it against the fence as Eva climbed over and dropped herself on the other side, landing arms apart. E.P. then clambered over himself, taking care to knock the ladder over as he stepped over the perimeter fence and tucking his limbs in to land with a roll. He stood up, brushed the grass off his blazer, checked his badge, and then followed Eva as she ran up to a side entrance.

Eva swiped her laminated pass over the scanning lock, with Parsons slipping in after her. The building had been cleared as part of the general evacuation, but was still guarded, as a MP on watch quickly reminded them.

"Stop right there!" he ordered, brandishing his submachine gun.

"Don't shoot, we work here!" Eva cried out, her voice an octave higher than normal. Both she and E.P. raised their hands, holding their badges to be plainly visible.

Eva saw the military policeman's posture relax slightly in his reflection in the glass door in front of them as he approached, keeping his right hand on his weapon. "Why aren't you in your evacuation zone? The general order went out an hour ago."

"We were heading out, but w-we're needed to watch the climate sensors…" Parsons explained, adding a stutter for effect.

"Let me see your ID," he ordered sternly, taking he badge out of Eva's hand and flipping it over. He'd just realized the printed photo was of a much older, very different looking woman when a narrow blade entered his chest between two ribs. Her other hand still raised, Eva twisted her stiletto as E.P. circled around and clamped his arms over his mouth and face, slowing his fall. Eva withdrew the blade, flung some of the blood away, and wiped it on her blazer, leaving a stain.

E.P. took the submachine gun by the sling, gave Eva the sidearm, and took his radio, leaving the earpiece behind. The MP was still twitching slightly as they left him behind in the hall and used Parson's badge to open the glass door.

"How much RDX do you think we'll need?" E.P. asked, checking his weapon's magazine.

"Not much. We're bringing down security, not the whole building."

"Will that be enough?" he asked as they ran down a stairwell.

"It will be so long as the heat disposal switches over to emergency mode."

"And what if they shut that down?"

The two passed through one last electronically-locked door at the bottom of the stairwell. "Nothing. Though if they leave it off for a few days, everyone in the colony will be cooked alive."

E.P. looked briefly surprised before grinning at her. "That's pretty messed up, Eva."

"Good thing that's not going to happen then, isn't it?" she told him coldly.

He gave one of his nonchalant, disassociated shrugs and followed her into the server room.

"Should we just start pulling out drives?"

"No, that'll just get their attention. Find the security server room, then give Cameron's men the signal."

"Yes ma'am, Major, ma'am," he recited faithfully, running in between the servers until he came to a reinforced security door that was mechanically sealed. He ran his hand along the door before coming to the edge of the bolted lock, took out a toothpaste tube from his pocket and emptied the paste-like contents into grove in a thick line, going back and forth until the tube was empty. Hands over her ears, Eva was patiently watching the door they entered through when Parsons fired the pin-size detonator and blasted the security door open on its hinges.

"Son of a bitch!" E.P. yelled, rubbing his hears angrily as he pushed the door out of the way, entering into the room housing the security server. Reaching the server tower, he flipped a metal latch and began yanking out drives, throwing them over his shoulder one by one. "Give them the signal!"

"I'm on it."

"What?" he yelled back, still rubbing his ears.

Eva accessed an online terminal for an outside closed-circuit video feed, watching as the red alert lights that surrounded the Climate Administration Bureau died one by one. From their hiding spot behind a wall of trees in the park, a dozen armored CAST commandos in armored spacesuits briskly crossed the green grass, right up to the MP perimeter. The military police, already mindful of the dimmed alert lights, spotted them immediately and began opening fire with their infantry weapons, only to encounter grenade launchers and anti-personnel explosives in turn, and were wiped out in less than a minute.

The two Military Commissariat officers were waiting for them in the lobby as the CAST stormed the outside grounds as loudly and quickly as possible. Warrant Officer Cameron retracted his helmet's reinforced visor and pulled down on his balaclava, exposing his mouth.

"Move up the hill and secure the lobby! We've got two friendlies in civilian dress, check your HUD—everyone else is fair game," he ordered, before sighting his rifle's grenade launcher and firing it at a security spire, swiftly knocking it over.

**IV**

Hanging from a harness from the ceiling, Chief Null was putting a few finishing touches on EA-01MA1's paintwork on the mobile suit core, with the sort of care and attention to detail more appropriate to an artisan and not a military plant at wartime. Finishing, he set aside his sprayer and took out a smaller white paint marker, pulled himself closer to the Leo chassis underneath the starboard multimode radar sheath, and quickly signed his name over the sleek red finish.

"Hey, do you guys want in on this?" he shouted, waving the marker.

"Chief, I _really _don't think we've got time for this," another technician answered. "Everyone's on battle stations. Chrysanthemum's ordered to launch immediately and join the navy defensive line."

"Well, where's our pilot?" Null countered.

"I'm sure she'll be here soon."

"Well go check on her," Null ordered, as his harness brought him back to the nearest gantry. "And find Walker, he's a prisoner-of-war, he ought to be in a shelter by now."

The technician ran towards the nearest telephone, only to slip and fall on some misplaced tools when the entire chamber's lighting flickered on and off following a brief but discernible jolt. Standing on the gantry, Null froze in mid-step like a frightened animal.

"What was that?"

"Some missiles that got through?" Another stronger jolt, rattling toolboxes and wrenches, followed by more flickering from the lights.

"That wasn't a missile, some beam fire struck us," Null exclaimed. "Since when are we in accurate-fire range of OZ's naval artillery?"

"I didn't think we were!" the other technician shouted back. "Maybe it was a lucky shot!"

"Find Walker, then get a security detail to escort him to the shelter!" Null ordered, sliding down the ladder, before pointing at another worker. "You, find Captain Soletta and tell her we're on standby, then join the rest of at the ammo cache."

"On it, Chief!"

Null looked around the massive dry dock. "Where the heck are you, Walker?"

The OZ flight lieutenant was actually at the far end opposite of the armored shutters that led to Outer Space, standing immediately behind the mobile armor itself. He felt another jolt from naval artillery, checked the wristwatch he wasn't wearing, and dropped his hydrostatic paint sprayer. A noncommissioned officer was standing just a few meters away, looking exceedingly worried.

"Sergeant….sergeant!" he yelled, waving excitedly. "Get over here!"

"What?"

"One of the technicians fell, his harness must have snapped!"

The sergeant cursed, slinging his weapon over his back and running up to the gantry. "Do I need to call a medic?"

"Look for yourself!" Walker shouted, pointing to the dry dock floor at recessed area that housed part of the dock rail system. "He's right there."

The sergeant looked over the guardrail. "I don't see him, where is…"

Then Walker, propped against the guardrail, reached down and gave his paint sprayer a hard pull. The paint hose, descending from the ceiling, had been threaded between the sections of guard rail and, pulled taunt, abruptly knocked the sergeant off his feet and over the railing. Walker only opened his eyes when he heard the unmistakable _thud _of the sergeant striking the floor.

He glanced around—the nearest soldier on guard was at the other end of the walkway, by the stairs, preoccupied with his radio. As calmly as he could manage, Walker dropped his sprayer and strolled up to the open bulkhead doorway, stepped through, and shut it behind him.

**V**

With the _Europa_'s armored shutters now closed over its navigation bridge windows, Lieutenant Colonel North intently watched the digital displays that simulated the same view, as mobile suit companies from both 1st and 2nd Divisions advanced over a long front of several hundred kilometers, joined by cruisers and destroyers—each marked by a highlighted box with more detailed information.

Sitting next to him in another raised seat, the _Europa_'s commanding officer tapped his personal monitor, focusing it on the space colony itself, increasingly surrounded by more and more destroyers.

"Keep the perimeter forces out, I don't want us being surrounded by their reserves," he instructed.

"Yes sir!"

North's own computer beeped loudly, catching him off guard. "Go ahead."

"_Sir, Donovan Flight is requesting permission to use tactical weapons against a moored cruiser attached to a defensive asteroid, CL-63._" The associated request appeared in a small window on his screen.

North sighed. "To repeat, all field commanders have permission to use nuclear weapons against purely military targets of serious import," he said with a sigh before shaking his head. "And permission granted."

"_Affirmative, sir. Eagle Actual, permission is granted, suggest taking vector two-three…_"

North lowered the volume on the tinny speaker before leaning back to the ship's commander. "Captain, how long will we still have accurate artillery trajectory data on the Military Quarter?"

He thought for a second, pulling his cap down over his head. "At its current speed of rotation—I'd say Firs Recon's data is useful for a few more minutes, at best. Three tops."

North nodded. He trusted the word of an experienced Space Forces naval captain who had a half-dozen defensive and offensive colonial operations under his belt, going back more than a decade—he had precious few points of reference himself. "Signal the _Callisto_ and the _Io_, stand by to fire on our lead."

"Affirmative sir, datalink across all ships is ready for fire solutions."

"Gunnery, target the Torus ring outer wall, one-hundred and eighty degrees precisely, three-hundred meters above the equator. Helmsman, reposition us for a better angle," he said, glancing at the captain, who sat up in his seat.

"Helmsman, decrease angle of attack by…four degrees, please."

"Acknowledged, sirs." The ship began to tilt, the distant white-grey dots of D-120 and its defenses rising in relation to their field of view.

"Continuous barrage, main guns."

"Correcting for influence of gravity," another office announced. "Standing by."

"Fire," the CO announced, pointing a finger.

The _Europa_'s four symmetrically-placed double-cannon heavy beam turrets fired in steady alternation, soon joined by its two sister ships in the same class. The barrage traveled the hundreds of kilometers across the field of battle, passing in between the Noventan defenders before blasting apart one of the armored blocks of the colony's outermost superstructure. Even these canons, among the most powerful conventional naval artillery in service, were largely deflected, but not after leaving deep wounds at the points of impact, as that face of the colony gradually rotated away.

"Reporting direct hits, sir. That section of the military quarter is no longer visible to us, sir."

"I can see that," the C.O. announced, looking back at North. "What about that naval dock mentioned in the infiltration reports?"

"Visible for another two-hundred seconds we estimate, sir. Should we modify the firing solution?"

The commander glanced at North, who shook his head subtly. "That won't be necessary, XO." He leaned towards North. "Will you send the Recon Battalion out again, Colonel?"

"Yes, but not for this. D-120 still has a whole mobile suit army we'll need to neutralize, since the navy isn't much use. No offense."

"None taken. Shall we resume conventional bombardment?"

North stood up from his raised seat. "No, Captain. Contrary to my rapidly-spreading reputation, I have no intention of blowing more holes in D-120 than is necessary, with or without conventional weapons. You'll return to anti-ship and fighter screening duties."

"Yes sir." In front of both of them, a moored ship exploded in a brief, bright flash of a thermonuclear fireball consuming it.

"I'll debrief the Recon Battalion before they launch again."

Below the command tower, in BC-120's main hangar, pilots from the 1st Recon Battalion waited for hasty repairs and rearming of their Taurus mobile suits to be completed before launching again.

"Make sure they know I want the beam cannon, not another ECM pod. I doubt some jamming's going to make that much a difference if they know we're here," Emi instructed, running a hand through her black hair as a naval medic attached sensors to her head and neck. She then handed one of the handheld scanners to Flight Officer Tsujimoto, while turning her attention to the more complex of the two.

"You mean _after _they fix your arm and replace your beam cannon."

"Yes, after!" Emi snapped back angrily, causing the display lines on both scanners to spike abruptly.

"Tell me if anything comes up red," she instructed Nabiki. This'll just take a minute, Squadron Commander."

"Hurry it up then." Nabiki laughed a little, floating nearby while idling reading the scanner's screen while the medic got to work.

"What are they doing?" Emi asked while she tried to stand still.

Nabiki looked from the number-filled display and in the same direction as Emi—a group of three pilots, all men, were at the back of the hangar, in the direction of the umbilical tunnels leading to the Taurus carriers being towed by the cruiser, huddled around by a black-robed priest with a beard and a polished cross hanging from his neck. The pilots were from the 2nd Division, according to the insignia on their normal suits.

"Praying, I think," Nabiki said.

"In Armenian, I realize that. Do they think it's going to do them any good?"

"It probably brings them some comfort. Not all of us have become as cynical as you, Emichan."

"Thanks for the compliment," Emi replied before looking at the medic. "Are we done here?"

"Yes ma'am," she replied as Emi yanked one of the censor cups off her forehead and the others from around her neck and under her normal suit and handed them back to the medic, who took the equipment from Nabiki. Two more officers in normal suits came floating from behind Nabiki, one in violet and the other in a white-grey hangar crew suit.

F/O Syed Khan waved at Emi before gesturing at the crewman. "They just finished, Emi."

"Yes ma'am," he elaborated. "We did the fast fix, which was replacing your machine's arm all the way back to the servomotor with a spare for an OZ-12SMS."

"Which is compatible with your OZ-12SMSK," Indira added quickly.

"Yes, which is mechanically identical to the arm on your command unit ma'am," the crewman explained. "We also replaced the beam rifle you lost in the field and equipped your existing beam cannon."

"Good. When do we launch?" she asked. Nabiki shrugged.

"I think Lady Soris is coming to brief all the flight leaders personally."

Emi sighed. "Great, just what I wanted."

"You need to hurry up and get promoted again," Indira offered, as the hangar crewman offered Emi digital tablet, upon which she removed one of her gloves and pressed her thumb against the bottom left had corner of the screen, causing it to beep twice before the crewman took it back.

"Thank you, ma'am."

Emi grumbled something as she pulled her glove back on and turned to Nabiki. "Any more Noventans I should be worried about?"

"Intelligence thinks that was was Major Umar bin Khattāb, the Noventan's top flying ace in the Taurus," Indira explained. "Dropping on him like must have severely buggered his plans."

Emi kept looking at Nabiki, who stared back. "What? I told you, I pilot the carrier—you want answers, go bother the intelligence company."

"How do you still have a job?" Emi asked.

"Probably the much needed class and charm I bring to this operation," she sang, running a hand through her dark bob.

**VI**

While L1-D-120 spun gradually on its axis, the blasted superstructure and exposed outer decks in the southern quadrant of the torus continued burning as atmosphere and fuel lines emptied themselves into the vacuum of space. Behind the emergency bulkheads and shutters, in the sound corridors where pumped atmosphere and coolant were being necessarily diverted into, Captain Soletta strode in her brown Alliance Space Forces normal suit, Republican Guards insignia sewn to her shoulders and her helmet under her arm. The lights flickered periodically, and between the seconds of darkness, a junior officer appeared in her service uniform.

"Captain Soletta, ma'am," she asked, stopping her.

"Are the fires still burning?" she asked over her shoulder.

"Uh, no ma'am. Civil engineering and damage control says they've gotten that under control."

"And?"

She bit her lip. "I'm sorry, Captain. There hasn't been any word from the fleet about Major Khattāb. But communications are still down from the attack, it's certainly possible that…"

Arching her head, Soletta quietly pulled on her helmet, locked it in place, magnetically sealed it, and continued down the corridor as the intermittent outages grew longer in length, passing directly into a cloud of evaporating coolant and leaving the junior officer behind.

Outside the colony, a number of defense ships, including the escort carrier _Salzburg_, drew themselves closer to D-120. Passing through the wreckage of an earlier mobile suit battle, the _Salzburg _was looking for survivors from the Home Army.

"_This is Spearhead 1-2, is anyone out there?_" a mobile suit pilot, deprived of his Space Leo, asked over an auxiliary radio booster unit on CVE-103's short flight deck. "_Repeat, this is Spearhead 1-2 to any survivors, do you copy_?"

Finally, a grainy response came back. "_Centurion Actual to Spearhead 1-2, thanks for coming out for me!_"

"_Major Khattāb, is that you?_"

"_It is, how did you know where to find me?_" Spearhead 1-2's pilot scanned the horizon with a handheld monocular before pocketing it and grabbing the long tether bundled at his feet and throwing it out. About 120 meters away, on the edge of the debris field, was another normal suit drifting parallel to the _Salzburg_. Spearhead 1-2 reached to his feet and flipped the switch at the capacitor at the end of the tether, magnetizing the conductive core and causing it to swiftly unravel in his direction.

"_We saw your shoot-down visually—the ECM was still active back then,_" he told him as Khattāb used the last of his fuel to bring him towards the unraveled tether, took it and began pulling himself back as Spearhead 1-2 helped. In a minute, Khattāb was on the relative safety of the flight deck, Spearhead 1-2 pulling him up, and he paused for a breath.

"_You're very lucky, Major._"

"_I'm lucky that Taurus had such outstanding pilot protection. The pilot cockpit compartment alone,_" he muttered exhausted, trying to steady himself. "_Thank you, Lieutenant…?_"

Spearhead 1-2 was about to answer when there was another blinding explosion far ahead of the colony, nearly knocking Khattāb off the deck. "_Goddamn, was that another…?_"

"_Yes sir, it really looks like we pissed OZ off right proper now. They've been going all out on any outer defensive position that slows them down for long._"

"_Where's Admiral Arroway? She's got all our nukes, doesn't she?_"

"_No idea, sir. Communications are still shot to hell for the time being, but we can still get you into a mobile suit if you're feeling up to it and back to the defensive line._"

Khattāb nodded. "_Right, but I need to get back to D-120 first._"

"_Sir, are you sure that's…?_"

He cut him off. "_I saw the damage outside, don't bullshit me. I need to get to the Military Quarter while it's still there. Then to the defensive line._"

"_Are those your orders, sir?_"

He gave Spearhead 1-2 a look through his visor, who relented. "_All right sir, this way, come on._"

The two went through a maintenance hatchway and airlock into the carrier's central hangar, increasingly filled with smoke and leaking coolant. On the hangar floor, Spearhead 1-2 narrowly avoided being hit a floor chief carrying a 105 mm HEAM cannon round as he floated past.

"Sorry, sir!" They watched as the floor chief drifted to a Leo autocannon at the feet of one of a number of mobile suits, before the two launched themselves to two waiting Pioneer Leos close to the hangar. A control officer came floating up.

"Who cleared this? Lieutenant! Sir!"

"This is Major Khattāb of the Republican Guard, trust me, it's cleared!" he shouted back as he pushed the other man away and they came to the cockpit doors of their mobile suits. The major climbed in first, closing the hatch behind him, powering up his avionics and them beginning a quick startup.

"Spearhead 1-2, once we're out, go to cruising speed and form up on me."

"_Yes sir. Hangar crew, clear the area, we're about to launch. Move it_!"

The hangar crew quickly donned their helmets and braced themselves as the hangar shutters retracted and the two mobile suits launched under their own power. The escort carrier, designed for small size and low cost, lacked an exterior catapult, but it was enough in their case.

"We'll pass through junction point three on the lower bracer, those guys tend to be pretty fast, the make best speed for the military quarter, acknowledged?"

"_Yes sir, but what are you hoping to find there?_"

"Well, aside from the so-called best weapon in D-120, there are a couple people who might be stuck there, depending on how bad the damage is," Khattāb explained, as they passed over the colony torus and descended towards the bracing arm. "If I get there in time, maybe I can convince one of them not to get herself killed in a fight she can't win."

Spearhead 1-2 seemed at a loss for words, so they continued into the bracing arm, past a pair of hastily-serviced missile destroyers, moored as they exchanged their wounded for more ordnance. They then proceeded through the bracing spokes into the torus ring itself, carefully exiting on the edges of the Military Quarter in Old Town. Plumes of smoke had begun rising from unseen wounds and craters, at some of the oldest buildings had already collapsed into fiery husks.

"_It's already burning_."

Khattāb grunted. "It's not as bad as it looks, just some minor precision bombardment. They were probably trying to get us to divert the Reserve Army to this quarter, than insert for invasion somewhere else."

"_Should we rendezvous with them_?"

"Negative, make best speed to the shipyard factory!"

"_Wait, what sir_?"

Moving on foot, the two Pioneer Leos left the rest of Old Town behind, putting distance between them and the streams of panicked civilians still filing into their evacuation zones. On the outside, it looked like OZ's bombardment had missed these few blocks.

"_Major, sir, can you please tell me what we're looking for_?"

"Set down here!" he instructed, in the empty helipad near the vehicle pool.

"_Yes sir. Please tell me it's not that P.O.W. I've been hearing about, sir_!"

Opening his cockpit, Khattāb rapidly descended by his cockpit hatch tether, followed by Spearhead 1-2 who did the same, before checking his holstered sidearm.

"So, Lieutenant, you still want to help me?"

"If that's the only way you'll tell me what I'm doing here sir, yes."

"Good," Khattāb grinned toothily at him. "Go to the shipyard command post—find Captain Carmen Soletta, Republican Guard Central Division. Tell her _not _to launch in the Capital Defense Army's mobile armor to engage OZ's navy. If she does, they'll vaporize her with thermonuclear missiles."

"Sir?" Spearhead 1-2 asked, confused.

"Just tell her I told you this. If she refuses, say I'm _ordering _her." He clenched his jaw. "That's one girl who's not dying for a lost cause."

Spearhead 1-2 stood there, again at a loss for words. Khattāb undid his helmet and let it hang over his back. "I need to find an acquaintance of mine is. Unless he's in the old dormitories, in which case he's already burned to death. That building always was a death trap."

"And if he isn't dead?"

"I'll figure that out when I find him," Khattāb confessed. "Get moving or help!"

Spearhead 1-2 groaned again followed after him as he ran towards the complex. "He was an airborne division pilot, right? Is it possible he knows how to fly a helicopter?"

"He might," Khattāb acknowledged, touching his headset. "Major Khattāb to Lieutenant Carpenter, come in. Glen, are you there?"

No response. "Are there other helicopters?"

"I'm sure there are, but damned if I know anyone else." Khattāb to Glen, do you read me?"

"Communications might still be sketchy," Spearhead 1-2 pointed out, looking towards a guard tower on the edge of the vehicle pool. "I'm going to better signal," he explained before running off.

"Damn it Glen, now you decide to shut up? Answer already!" Khattāb shouted into his handset, before turning to see Spearhead 1-2 waving at him from the top of the tower.

"Major, a security detail bringing out wounded from the underground says they saw a workman leaving the dry dock section by way of the main stairway. No one else evacuated, the damage is worse underground and the dry dock hangar is easily the most hardened section!"

"By God that's good enough," Khattāb declared, and both men left the vehicle pool for the concrete entrance into the main freight elevator. Next to it was the primary stairwell, and descending the shaft, they found the lighting becoming less and less reliable and more unchecked coolant leaks.

"According to the detail, halfway down this is a hall to the command center."

"Then that's where we'll split up," Khattāb said, as Spearhead 1-2 opened his holster and drew his sidearm. "And put that damn thing away, you think we came all the way here just to shoot him?"

"Yes sir," he muttered, holstering it indignantly. Taking one more step, the metal stair underneath him abruptly gave away and he lost his footing, only to be caught by Khattāb.

"Shit!"

"Easy there, Lieutenant, one stair at a time."

Halfway down, the two found a number of bulkhead doors, including one left open previously, as indicated by a glowing green light over it. Khattāb took out his emergency flashlight and glanced inwards.

"Come on, Major, I think we've done enough," Spearhead 1-2 hissed.

"Walker, it's me, Umar! Walker, for God's sake, speak up! The stairway's going to collapse!"

In the corridor filled with clouds of leaking coolant and redirected atmosphere, Khattāb rapidly moved his flashlight about, illuminating each corridor. A ceiling panel dropped from the above between the two, causing Spearhead 1-2 to jump and curse angrily again. Halfway hidden in a foggy cloud, Khattāb was about to order Spearhead 1-2 to calm down when he heard the sound of footsteps against the metal floor, and descended deeper into the cloud.

"Major?" Spearhead 1-2 asked before looking over his shoulder. He heard a piercing scream from Khattāb and looked back immediately. "Major!"

A burst of atmosphere cleared the misty cloud of evaporating coolant, and he saw a man in stained working suit standing over Khattāb, before giving a grunt and raising him like a shield between him and Spearhead 1-2, before he cursed again and drew his sidearm. From behind his improvised shield, the worker yanked Khattāb's own pistol from its holster and blindingly fired four shots at Spearhead 1-2, still trying to aim past the ranking officer. After the first four forced Spearhead 1-2 to take cover, the technician fired over and over again until he emptied the magazine, and one round struck the lieutenant in his side.

Walker watched the other officer go down and exhausted himself, dropped Khattāb. The major was still writhing in pain, groping at the screwdriver Walker had driven through his suit and deep into the flesh between left clavicle and scapula. Walker took another look at him, than scrambled for the other officer who was bleeding in a pile. He grasped at Spearhead 1-2's sidearm, then turned back to Khattāb, sprawled on the floor. Aiming and steadying his hand, he squeezed the trigger while Khattāb moaned and whimpered.

When Walker had hastily planned this act minutes earlier, he had hesitated at this point. But not now. Not such a man of honor it seemed.

Instead of the loud report of a gunshot, Walker got tinny clink of a jam. He looked at the pistol before tossing it aside and making a straight for the stairwell. Climbing it carefully, he emerge from the concrete building and immediately saw the two violet mobile suits left standing in the vehicle and helicopter pool, their cockpit doors still opened, then pulled on the tether for the nearest one.

**VII**

"_All ordnance is loaded, preliminary checks are complete. All green on our end_," a calm voice explained over Soletta's headset. She sat in the cockpit of Chrysanthemum's mobile suit core, normal suit sealed and avionics online. Rather than the view of the dry dock outside, all three of her primary displays were filled with instrumentation data from the mobile armor's own systems.

"Bringing mobile armor reactor to full normal power," she announced, touching one of her MFDs with her left hand and bringing up the additional system controls. An audible, high-pitched whine could be heard coming from beneath her feet.

"_Power readings are normal, Chrysanthemum._"

"Bringing all weapons to standby. Ready for deployment."

"_Hangar is clear, Chrysanthemum. Waiting on your order._"

She swallowed once, then switcher her forward display to the primary camera. "This is Carmen Soletta in the Chrysanthemum—launching!"

Her body became rigid. Then nothing happened.

"Shipyard Control, what's happening?"

"_The hangar doors aren't responding. Switching to direct control, opening hangar doors…now!_"

There was a very faint cracking sound over her speakers, as if someone had knocked over their toolbox over somewhere in the dock, and the hangar's lights died abruptly.

"Shipyard Control!" she barked.

"_Atmosphere hasn't changed, doors are still sealed! Get a team out here in normal suits!_ _Chrysanthemum, Captain, we can't open the doors, they're unresponsive!_"

"What the hell is this? I thought you said the bombardment to the dry dock section was minimal!" Soletta yelled angrily into her headset.

"_I'm sorry, Captain, but this is something else!"_ The officer on the other end sounded like she was practically in tears. _"Some sort of mechanical failure in the hangar doors, not related to enemy bombardment!_"

"Then fix it!"

Another voice came in. "_Captain, this is Null. I'm on the outside right now, can you see me?_" Immediately, motion tracking brought up a normal suit immediately ahead of her, standing where the walkway met large armored doors.

"I see you, Null. What the hell happened?"

"_I-I don't know, Captain, but I'm seeing an access panel blown free. It looks like we've got a short circuit in the hangar door, but that wouldn't have knocked off this access panel. Maybe during the attack…_"

Soletta barely kept herself from screaming. "Null, are you saying the hangar door cannot open?"

"_Y-Yes ma'am_."

"Is there a manual override?"

"_Captain, this door weighs as much as that mobile armor. It's designed to resist warship artillery. There is _no _manual override._"

"Oh, like hell there isn't," she snarled. "Null, everyone, clear out of the dock. I'm going to destroy the shutters!"

Panic broke out, though Null's was the only voice was the only one she could understand. "_Captain, wait! You can't do that, the beam deflection alone would vaporize half of Chrysanthemum before you penetrated through the doors. We need to get a damage control team down here, maybe they can fix the shutter mechanism._"

"How long would that take?"

"_I don't know, first we'd have to see what caused it, then we might have to replace the transformer or the subsystem generator, or it might be something in the hydraulics…_"

"Goddammit!" she yelled, striking her fists against the controls.

A different voice interrupted, this one softer and grainier in quality, on the general rather than local channel. "_Attention, the defense fleet has visual confirmation: OZ's two Gundams have appeared on the field, repeat, OZ's two Gundams have deployed on the field and are inbound. E.T.A. to the final defensive line is_…"

"Gundams," she growled, before grasping her flight sticks again. "Chrysanthemum to Shipyard Control, do you read me? I know another way out of this dry dock."

"_Chrysanthemum, we read you but there isn't…no! Are you insane? The shipyard door is only big enough for a mobile suit, even if you could blast your way through, you'd end up in the middle of Old Town! That mobile armor can't be deployed inside the colony, the Capital Defense Plan…_"

"_Fuck the Capital Defense Plan_!" Soletta screamed into her headset loud enough that the officer on the other end quickly yanked off her own. "_This is Chrysanthemum, I'm deploying into the Military Quarter, open all the interior passageways or I'll blast through them myself!_"

"R-Roger!" the officer sputtered as Null scrambled into the command center, tripping over his own feet.

"Are you insane?" he yelled, trying to get up in his bulky suit. "That's not a mobile suit! Even if she can fit through the passageways, she'll level half of Old Town just maneuvering out the entrance!"

"Well then fix the damn door!" the angry officer screeched back, throwing a spare headset at Null, hitting him square in the forehead. "Opening all the passageway bulkheads to the service!" she ordered, as the entire room trembled while Chrysanthemum began moving under its own power. Null ran over to the bank of switches, only to be pushed on his back again as the officer flipped the a bank of six switches in rapid succession.

On the surface above them, Walker didn't feel the vibrations inside the cockpit of an OZ-06SMS 'Space Leo' as it took careful steps through the largely emptied streets, but did see the red warning lights over the Noventa military datalink indicating several city blocks to be avoided for an unstated reason. An alarm tone rang in his cockpit, and he killed it with a switch before reaching into the red-paint-covered pocket of his jumpsuit and holding what was left of the digital reader given to him by Null: a few pieces of plastic, a small part of the power adapter's cable with the end gnawed off by his own teeth, and a few small commercial-grade semiconductor chips, all covered with red paint. He opened his hand and let them fall to the cockpit floor.

Between emptying his pockets and avoiding the Reserve Army's own mobile suit troops, he failed to notice the caving concrete and collapsing statue of hero Cosmonaut Khanov several blocks behind him, across Old Town, as he headed towards what he hoped was a way out.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note:<strong>_

_More delays, like everyone else I guess! This chapter should have been finished a few days earlier if it wasn't for finishing my _Outlaw Star _story and starting with _Ghost in the Shell. _Plus, there were more than a few high-profile game releases that I'd been itching to play for a while. _

_Walker's a little sneaky when he puts his mind to it, it would seem! One thing I kept in mind when writing this D-120 arc was the complaint that not enough of _Walker's Account _was necessarily about the title character. I'm not sure if this solves that complaint, but hopefully it at least told an interesting story (it certainly went on forever). Despite the popular image, large, expensive offensive military vehicles do not typically possess 'keys' the way cars and other personal vehicles do _(Code Geass _not withstanding). It's generally assumed that leaving military vehicles un-fueled and in a clearly detailed area is security enough, and that counting on a set of keys isn't really a way to prevent someone from stealing a tank if that was actually a concern. _


	49. Red Dragon's Rise, II

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 49 – Red Dragon's Rise, II**

Flanked by a pair of cruisers, the EASFS _Africana_ held its position on the perimeter around L1-D-1307, the last colony annexed by the Noventan Republic, just weeks earlier. Across what was left of the defensive satellites and platforms, opposite of CVA-40's force, were a half dozen OZ Space Forces missile destroyers joined by an escort carrier and communications control warship.

On the _Africana's _expansive bridge, an officer in a white summer uniform and polished leather riding boots crossed the gold-trim red carpet to the ostentatious command chair in front of an Alliance flag, before stopping and saluting. "Defense Minister, ma'am, we were able to clean up the message from D-120, what actually got through anyway ma'am."

The communications officer waited for Admiral Arroway, who was hunched over on her throne with her fan clenched in one gloved hand, to finally look up and nodded calmly.

"OZ Space Forces Seventh Division has used six tactical nuclear missiles in combat, including three in the final defense zone, against stationary warships and other defense platforms. The _Africana _is urgently requested to move into a communications as soon as possible, away from the border, and coordinate with direct defense of the capital."

The officer waited patiently for a response. Arroway's nearby XO wondered what her response would be while the murmuring of exchanged instructions and orders continued among the bridge crew.

"Thank you, Senior Lieutenant," she said, dismissing them before turning back to her left and returning to her vacant staring out the port bay windows. While the officer bowed and departed, her executive officer crossed his arms and approached her.

"Well?" he asked, low enough only she could hear him.

Turning her head again, she raised an eyebrow at the older officer and gave an unconcerned, relaxed smile. "We have orders to abandon D-1307, so we will follow them. Signal our escorts to take tight formation and move on us, and have a vector brought up to directly exit the combat zone."

"And them?" he asked, gesturing with his head at the enemy ships visible far before them.

"We can reestablish normal communications with the capital along a vector heading two-three-zero. It seems clear they've had their eyes on D-1307 for some time now."

"So we let them have their prize?" he asked.

Arroway's smile changed abruptly to something even he found sinister, and he couldn't help but smile back. "Set our course, and keep the troops on combat-ready. Those Taurus troops belong to OZ's Second Division, correct?"

"Yes, ma'am, but you're not thinking…" he began rhetorically.

"This may be the last opportunity."

"If you're hit by a Taurus, ma'am, it _will _be your last."

She kept grinning. "I don't think I can turn that down," she told him before abruptly standing up, her cloak billowing in the low gravity. "Signal the escorts, ahead full!" she announced with a dramatic wave of her right hand, fan at the end, as her XO broke out in his own irrepressible grin.

**II**

An OZ-06SMS with its violet paint scheme fired its lower rear thrusters and propelled itself onto the top level of a tall parking garage adjacent to a department store that overlooked one of Old Town's parks. Inside the cockpit, Oswald Walker switched the Leo's HUD to automatic air-ground mode and updated the urban overlay map. While his mobile suit's sensor rebuilt its virtual map of Old Town, Walker glanced at left hand, still stained bright red, before turning back to his main display.

"Lots of infantry positions, some anti-vehicle and anti-mobile suit nests. Bunkers all along the avenue. Mobile suits behind those—Ground Leos. How did they get that many ground mobile suits in a space colony?" he asked himself.

Aside from the military dry dock he'd escaped from, he knew of very few access points out of the colony torus in the either Old Town or the Military Quarter, and only one he thought was large enough to for a mobile suit to pass thought: a resource loading bay at the other end of the Military Quarter's manufacturing complex. It was also surrounded by a defending force, including at least one mobile suit squadron, facing the entrance. Walker was considering the merits of abandoning the Leo once he reached a maintenance access point that would allow him to escape on foot when there was an explosion, this one in front of him rather than behind.

The Reserve Army's channels immediately filled with chatter, while a city block consisting of a pair of old fashion, red brick military repository buildings shifted before a bright light tore out from between them, growing until both buildings were missing a large semi-circular chunk. The entire block rotated thirty degrees on its foundation before it completely shook to pieces.

"_Fire, fire, fire!_" Walker heard someone shout on the channel, and he counted six Leo troops open fire, primarily with autocannons, in the direction of the swirling brown cloud. He knelt his own Space Leo down but looked up just in time to see some greyish blur trailing hot-white blue shoot out of the cloud.

_Was that a breaching missile? No, it's a… _His thoughts were cut off by a loud scream over the channel from a Noventan officer.

"_THERE'S A GUNDAM UP HERE!_"

High above the Military Quarter, the black OZ-13SMS1, callsign Suivant 1, hovered level on its powerful hip-mounted vernier thrusters, while enemy mobile suits turned their fire towards it. The huge beam cannon it had used to shoot its way through the colony's inner wall was still glowing at the tip, needing to cool before it could fired again. When 105 mm HEAM ammunition began to explode, rather uselessly, against it five defensor discs rose up on their small thrusters and formed a protective shield below. A mobile suit on the ground, witnessing this, brought its aim back down to street level just in time for a beam saber to slice off its right arm at the ball-joint before cutting deep into the leg servomotors.

In the cockpit of OZ-13SMS2, callsign Suivant 2, Flight Officer Armonia toggled between different camera modes before settling on thermal imaging to effectively highlight the enemy Leo troops amid the cloud of falling dust and brick. Pushing the other Leo out of her way, she turned her attention to a second one by an anti-mobile suit nest, aimed her machine's beam carbine at it, and began firing.

"Suivant 2 to _Europa_, we've breeched the torus ring, do you copy?"

The response came back distorted. "_North here, I copy you, Suivant 2. We are under heavy retaliatory fire from enemy destroyers, what is your status?_"

In her own cockpit, Lieutenant Colonel Armonia grinned as her HUD indicated her beam cannon was sufficiently cooled to fire again. From behind the active protection field, she fired a low-power shot that was still enough to turn half of a Leo beneath her, a command unit, into molten statue on glowing pavement. "Suivant 1 to _Europa_, you needn't worry about our status, we're having no trouble here. Fall back as needed and leave this to the mobile suits."

"_Acknowledged, good hunting._"

"Missiles inbound, take cover Suivant 1," Luna warned, glancing at her starboard monitor just in time to see Vayeate cut its thrusters and descend to street level, grinding to a halt along a long avenue. "Hostiles, mark three, less than a hundred meters ahead!"

"_I see them," _Suivant 2 responded, as 105 mm fire bounced ineffectually off her mobile suit, crashing into the buildings or street vehicles around her as they were deflected. "_Keep your field high for missiles, I'll take care of ground fire_."

"Acknowledged," she responded before her cockpit lit up with the blinding light produced by Soris's beam cannon, which forced the enemy to take cover again. "Though they should have already evacuated this area, try and avoid urban collateral damage, sister."

"_I will, dear_."

Having seen the two Gundams enter, two thoughts immediately entered Walker's mind one after another.

_Finally, someone's come for me._

His smile faded as soon as it came.

_Except now I'm in an Alliance mobile suit. _

Watching a ground Leo back away from Suivant 2's mostly-suppressive beam carbine fire before a precise shot blew out its left knee-joint and the pilot ejected in a loud trail of smoke, Walker looked at his own instrumentation, then flipped the switch to jettison his machine's beam rifle before he pulled back on both flight sticks. The violet Leo carefully maneuvered out of the alleyway and into the main avenue, just under 200 meters away from where Suivant 1 now stood with its massive cannon. Immediately, he manually toggled his monoeye's high-powered lantern, flashing it red in old Morse code over and over, three long, then three short.

"I really hope this works," he told himself just as a number of carrotwood trees that ran along the sidewalk to his right were effortlessly uprooted and knocked away. A white blur appeared that caused him to jump—Mercurius had gotten the drop on him, beam carbine aimed menacingly right at his primary camera.

Walker almost swallowed his tongue before he checked at his instrumentation. _They really do have small radar signature, _he thought as console beeped.

"_If you're surrendering, hit the silk like everyone else_," a familiar voice told him tersely over a point-to-point link.

_I would, but I haven't strapped myself in yet. _"Lun-…Ms. Armonia, this is Flight Lieutenant Walker, Squadron 1, First Company! I'm in a Noventan Leo, don't shoot!" he shouted into the backup microphone next to the pilot camera at the top of the cockpit.

"_Open the hatch_," Luna ordered, not missing a beat.

Pulling the cockpit release lever, Walker jumped in surprise when a current of cold air rushed in at him—the opposite of what he expected in a recent combat zone.

"It's freezing out here!" he muttered before standing on the cockpit door, leaning out of the cockpit and waving at Suivant 2. Not only had the temperature dropped, but a visible haze was descending from the artificial sky, alongside plumes of smoke. Hovering briefly on its vernier engines, Mercurius came directly up to Walker, almost blowing him from the pilot compartment had he not been holding onto a cockpit handle for dear life before he realized that there were at least six defensor discs arrayed around them, held up by their magnetic field.

In another surprise, Mercurius' heavily armored cockpit hatch opened, along with the pilot's compartment door. Flight Officer Armonia, in an all-white version of a military normal suit, looked at him directly through her helmet before turning needlessly in the direction of her companion. "It's him, Soris."

As though on cue, Vayeate's thruster bank lit up and it rose into the air before delivering another powerful blast from its beam rifle, this one consuming the length of the avenue up to the far intersection. Luna turned back to Walker. "Does your machine work, sir?"

"According to diagnostics, yes. Do you have a way out?"

"We'd better—reinforcements are inbound and we're leaving now," she shouted back at him before falling back into her cockpit, the door closing after her. Walker did the same and began buckling his seat restraints closed for the first time since he'd boarded.

**III**

"I don't understand, just…calm down and repeat yourself."

North was trying to make sense of the extremely high frequency broadcast from the squadron escorting the communications control warship, which was badly degraded—either from the jamming ship itself, which did not distinguish between friendly and enemy transmissions, or from other combat conditions.

"_I repeat, sir, Arroway's fleet has abandoned D-1307 and is moving to directly engage_," he could barely make out. "_We think this might be some sort of feint._"

"Goddamn it, I knew this was too easy," North cursed. He knew he was the one panicking, not the pilot in the field. "What's the status on the rest of Second Division?" he yelled past the captain of the OZSS _Europa_.

"Still committed to the other three supply lines. Should we recall them?"

"Negative, if this _is_ a feint, like hell I'm falling for it. Where's Chuang?"

"As of ten minutes ago, with the rest of the lead company on the edge of L1-D-441, near the Midway perimeter. They're still engaged in fighting."

"Keep trying to patch our forces at D-1307 to him," he ordered angrily, before turning make to his seat's display monitor. "Listen, Squadcom, you fall back as much as you need to, but do not lose that communication ship, are we clear?"

"_Yes sir, we'll do our best sir. Can we expect reinforcements?_" the grainy voice asked.

"How many squadrons are ready to be deployed Fourth Division at Luna?" North asked.

The ship's commanding officer leaned forward. "The whole first company. The rest can join them very shortly."

"That means 'yes'," he told the distant squadron commander before cutting the transmission and jumping out of his seat. "Captain, I'll need your fastest ride to Luna, you got it?"

"Colonel, I do, sir, but are you sure you should be leading personally?"

"So long as the jamming ships keep doing their job. Nuclear weapons seem to be the answer to all our problems here at D-120, so if Arroway wants to piss me off way on the fringes, I'll oblige her," he explained with some sarcasm. "Have all Mobile Suit Troops at Luna placed on full alert, I'll meet them halfway to D-1307 if possible. What's the status on Suivant 1 and 2?"

"Still inside D-120, sir. CAST units confirm they're facing minimal impediment," a communications officer announced.

"Good, and make sure they'll reeled back after the mission timer hits zero, they're not there to destroy the enemy capital for their own amusement, and I have no doubt the enemy has some fight left in it. "

"Yes sir, Colonel."

"After she returns, Lieutenant Colonal Armonia will assume command—make sure she doesn't stop following _my_ orders not a second sooner!" he warned.

"Understood, sir."

"I'll put the alert out myself," the captain said quickly, rising from his own seat. "And sir, what if…what if this _is _the trap?"

North gave him a look. "It's not a trap," he assured him.

Nine-tenths of the way to L1-D-1307, the small force of ships guarding one of OZ Space Navy's communications control ships had closed ranks, along with the Taurus troops guarding it, as it faced the overwhelming fire of Admiral Arroway's carrier and cruiser escorts. In a custom-fitted Alliance normal suit, Arroway checked her helmet's seals and punched the keys next to one of her cockpit's MFDs.

"Don't let them draw you out," she commanded. "Stay in your groups, even if you're surrounded. And ignore the jamming ship, they'll use it as bait once they've got their lines reassembled. Focus on the escort ships and leave the enemy troops to the AA crews."

"_Yes ma'am!_"

Arroway's own Space Leo, armed with the heaviest beam cannon it could carry, remained tethered to the dorsal surface of the _Africana_, a hundred meters behind the command tower and near the engine banks, where she was joined by two other Leo troops. With the Taurus troops steered towards the front of the carrier by the carrier's defensive gunners, where the main catapult was located, the three mobile suits had been able to quietly deploy by the secondary aft mobile suit lift. Switching her HUD to air-air mode, she used her helmet to put her acquire her target—a OZ Space Forces gunship—in the target designation box, then put her aiming reticle over the box. Squeezing the trigger, a bright flash preceded an elliptical white-yellow streak that blasted away much of the gunship's bank of thrusters.

"_You see that hostile, at nine-five and twenty degrees horizon_?" she asked one of her wingman.

"_Yes ma'am_."

"_He looks distracted_," she told him, bringing her machine to the surface's edge and maneuver over to the side-mounted catapult. "_What would you say his heading is?_"

"_Almost parallel—I'd say three-thirty. Ma'am, why don't I take the catapult instead_?"

In her cockpit, Arroway paused and laughed. "_You'll never let me enjoy myself will you, Lieutenant?_"

"_No ma'am,_" he replied over the channel as the two Space Leos exchanged places, the catapult not occupied by one armed with a more conventional beam rifle. By the time Arroway returned to her position, the other Leo had already launched over the side-mounted backup catapult.

In the cockpit of the nearby Taurus, its pilot turned her head away from her port-side display and looked up just in time to see a Leo rapidly closing with far greater acceleration than it could have moved on its thrusters alone. She managed to maneuver out of the way as the enemy decelerated slightly—no matter what, a Leo could never compete with a Taurus' supermaneuverability—but as she turned to fire in retaliation, there was a flash from the enemy's left manipulator, followed by a long, twinkling line. Then a length of detcord approximately one-hundred meters long exploded around her machine, temporarily blinding her instruments while Arroway carefully lined aimed her beam cannon. She'd been aiming for the Taurus' cockpit compartment; a jerking maneuver at the last second mean the Taurus lost its right arm at the elbow instead, before the pilot immediately went into fighter mode and bugged out.

Immediately outside of the D-120 colony torus, a half squadron of Taurus troops took positions around a severely-damaged warship hangar long the torus's dorsal wall, joined shortly by two cobalt blue combat engineers in Space Leos. In the lead mobile suit, Flight Officer Thompson—the "Tattooed Lunarian" as the other elite Colonial pilots had taken to calling him even after military-mandated surgery, to his displeasure—stabilized himself with one last burst from his AMBAC motors and felt the thick armored plating beneath his machine's feet.

"Sky's clear—engineers?" he asked, checking the three primary monitors before looking at an MFD.

"_Nearly done. Opening the armored shutters in three…two…_"

A large but fairly harmless fireball of burning oxygen mixed with some vernier fuel escaped as the hangar doors were blown open by the combat engineers. As the atmosphere kept cooking off, three mobile suits shot out, leaving two visible blue trails behind them.

Thompson's mobile suit tracked them visually for a few seconds before launching himself off the colony, followed shortly by his compatriots. "_Confirming Suivant 1 and Suivant 2, with a Pioneer Leo in tow. Lightning Group, disperse and meet at the operation point._"

"_Acknowledged, sir!_"

Inside the cockpit of the captured machine, and without the benefit of a normal suit, Walker anxiously rooted about the cockpit, trying to find anything that could be used in lieu of a notebook, before finally settling on a well-worn pilot's manual. He flipped to the empty back pages, yanked out his pen, and immediately began sketching everything he remembered

_I can see why they never let me have anything to write with or write on, _he thought. Even the digital reader Null had given him was read-only, though it had served its purpose. Within a few seconds he had a rather rough, particularly sloppy outline of the triangular-shaped mobile armor, with its massive rear thruster banks and long cannon barrels. He was still sketching when Suivant 2 dragged the captured mobile suit into empty hangar of the escort carrier _Munich_, CVE-99, immediately after it launched its last two mobile suits.

As soon as the hangar shutters slammed closed behind them, the floor crew took positions around the three new arrivals. The Space Leo in particular was given attention, with the technical crew joined by a pair of armed naval guards.

"Lieutenant Colonel, ma'am, welcome aboard!" the hangar chief announced with a salute. "Is the captured pilot injured?"

Lady Soris didn't respond until she'd floated to the floor and removed her helmet, her orange-red hair bobbing in the microgravity. "He's not injured, and he's not a prisoner. He's one of ours."

One of the armed naval guards looked at them strangely and the floor chief blinked. "Excuse me, ma'am?"

"This wasn't an impromptu prisoner-grab, this was an impromptu rescue, Chief," Luna Armonia explained from her open cockpit before removing her own helmet and waving at the two naval guards. One of them slung his sub-machinegun over his shoulder and took out a biometric scanner from his white utility belt.

After some delay and a loud hiss of rushing air, the Pioneer Leo's door fell open and a haggard Walker drifted out, still holding the pilot's manual in one hand and a pen in the other. Without a word, the naval guard took Walker's right hand and pressed two fingers against the scanner, which obliging beeped a few seconds later. Immediately, the guard released him and both saluted.

"Flight Lieutenant Walker, sir, welcome aboard the _Munich_," one shouted.

Walker blinked several times before recovering. "Thank you, Chief Petty Officer."

"Do you need any medical assistance, sir?"

"I'm telling you, he's fine," Soris repeated. Still standing in her machine's cockpit, Luna waited for the floor chief to notice her.

"Flight Officer Armonia requesting permission to come aboard," she said.

The floor chief just barely held back his laughter. "Permission granted, ma'am, please do."

Still clutching the pilot's manual, Walker floated over the crowd and directly to Soris, who turned back to the welcoming party. "Walker's under my command and won't be debriefed until he's returned to the _Europa_. Floor Chief?"

"Orders were to begin our rendezvous with the _Europa _for ordnance and transferring supplies as soon as your party was aboard, Colonel."

"Good," she announced, smiling widely as an OZ naval medic came floating to the floor, carrying a white supply bag alongside her. "Walker, _do _you need medical attention?" she asked, almost contemplatively.

Walker ran his unpainted hand over his face once. "No, Colonel, I don't believe so." The medic behind Walker looked a rather unconvinced, shrugged and floated off in the opposite direction.

"We'll have someone take a look at you once we're back on the _Europa_. In the meantime, I believe this mobile suit is a gift to the crew of the _Munich _for their good fortune of being so on-the-spot."

Pressing his hand into his side, Walker stood by Lady Soris and looked up at his violently-acquired ride. Unlike the slightly-worn looking Gundam pair, the Pioneer Leo looked particular beat-up, its chassis marked with canon fire and near-misses by beam cannons, with much of the purple paint scheme being to peel off.

"And you're allowed to make that decision, Lieutenant Colonel, ma'am?"

She cocked her head cheerfully. "I think so, yes."

The floor chiefs had already begun to disperse, many moving to tether the beat-up Leo to a wall rather than standing in the middle of the hangar. Walker began fixing his collar anxiously and cleared his throat.

"I really must thank you again, Lady Soris, ma'am. To be completely honest, when I got into that vacant mobile suit, I really hadn't thought of a plan far beyond incapacitating the pilot with a screwdriver."

"How out of character for you Walker," Luna added quietly from behind, getting a reprimanding look from Soris, who turned back to Walker and gave him an amiable punch in the shoulder.

"Think nothing of it, Flight Lieutenant. Everyone needs help every now and again," she said with another white, toothy grin. Luna very visibly rolled her eyes. "And I'm sure your flight will be very happy to see their lieutenant back in one piece, more or less."

Walker gave a weak nod, his shoulder slumped. "In the meantime, why don't you get some rest? You look like you haven't slept since you went missing from North's meeting."

When she turned back to Walker, she found the younger man tilted forward slightly, his eyes shut and stressfully breathing. Soris peered at him before whistling at her sister shortly, and the two took him by the arms and floated him from the middle of the hangar, just as the hangar crew had done with the mobile suit.

**IV**

Like the other officers in the 101st Intelligence Squadron who still had their mobile suits, Captain Fielding had been pressed him combat duty as soon as the first mobile suits had raided D-120. When he launched from the forward outpost, he understood why: a few degrees of the colony torus looked utterly ruined, still glowing orange spots of torn girders and plating that occasionally bellowed out orange bursts of gas.

"Well, this is it: the colony interior is now officially a front city," he said to himself. He could speculate on how bad the damage was on the interior based on what he'd seen in other colonies—the whole Military Quarter, with its old brick buildings, was probably burning to the streets. Certainly if the two-man mobile suit that had gotten through the perimeter and through a breech had caught the defensive

"Gundams," he muttered. Next time, hopefully, they'd be prepared. And that would just leave the army of Taurus troops OZ was holding back…

Fielding's thoughts were interrupted by an alarm tone as he snapped back to attention. "What was that? Another nuclear launch?"

A response came, but it was distorted beyond comprehension. "Goddamn it, OZ, scrambling every goddamn frequency we might be using," he snapped, tapping up the settings on his communications computer. A list of green entries on the left right MFD slowly filled up with red as he checked them. "Switch to four-eight-four-nine!"

"_Captain Fielding, can you…hear me?_"

"Now I see why callsigns are so damn important. This is Fielding, who is this?"

"_This is the XO of the Eleventh Rifle Battalion, Reserve Army. My commanding officer took your name down._"

Fielding put a finger to his head as though it helped him think. "Major Denver, I remember him. Is he hit, what's going on?"

"_Major Denver's MIA, but we've got a bigger problem—you're with the Mobile Suit Troops, right_?"

"I don't have all day here, but yes."

"_We were trying to encircle an enemy commando position, but they're tracking one of _your _units through Old Town, and it's tearing the hell out of everything! I see at least six city blocks burning right now, and the damn temperature drop isn't cold enough to put them out! _"

Fielding frowned. "What do you mean, one of my units, I…wait, it's a mobile weapon?"

"_Yes sir!_" The grainy voice on the other end was clearly upset.

"Is it large and red?" he asked.

"_Yes it is, sir! And it's really strange look, not like any I've seen in the Reserve Army._"

"Shit, shit, shit!" he mumbled, disconnecting the line to hide his panic. "Goddamn it, Soletta, what are you doing _inside _the colony torus! You were supposed to be with the damn fleet!" he said before punching part of the cockpit furniture helplessly.

By the time the _Munich _docked alongside the _Europa_, Flight Officers Kaneshiro and Mazuri, alongside Pilot Officers Bishop and Levinsky, were waiting at the ventral umbilical tube used for transporting small supplies and fuel. Waiting behind the rail over the opened doors, they found a familiar face dressed in a paint-stained working uniform with a naval thermal blanket draped over his head, being guided by a uniformed medic.

"He'd better be back," Mazuri announced. "Kanna can't be flight leader, and God knows I shouldn't, so…"

"_Taichō_!" Kanna shouted as soon as he came into view, cutting him off and leaping over the railing. She floated over to him with enough momentum to knock him backwards until the medic grabbed him with one arm and the railing with the other, stopping all three of them with a grunt. Kanna held a drowsy Walker by the shoulders until he blinked himself awake.

"Oh, hello Kanna. What happen to your headband-thing?" he sputtered, forcing a smile.

Kanna laughed and squeezed Walker in her thick arms. "You said you'd be back, and here you are! A man keeps his word!"

"I don't recall saying that," Walker tiredly mumbled through the hug. Behind Kanna, down the hallway that led to the central lifts, a utilitarian naval forces clock clicked away behind a transparent plastic shield, marking the daily hours and seconds. Walker stared at it over Kanna's shoulder.

"Hey, take it easy on him, Flight Officer!" the medic shouted, pulling Kanna's arms apart gradually. The three other men floated over to Walker, who was more awake with each passing moment.

"Nothing like a heartfelt reunion," Mazuri offered.

"Ajay, nice to see you're still a smartass."

"You weren't even gone for a week, Flight Lieutenant Walker," he reminded him with a grin.

"See, we Windsor boys are tougher than we look," Dac declared, holding Walker by the arms and laughing. "Though honestly, sir, you look like hell."

"I haven't been sleeping well," he explained before closing his eyes again.

"Oh, what the hell did the Alliance do to him?" Kanna asked angrily.

"Well, it's not like they were having him break rocks into smaller rocks. They probably just overworked him on whatever project they thought would help win the war, here." She reached into her medical satchel and took out a printed book with a brown cover and various Alliance insignia stamped on it. "Lieutenant Colonel Armonia ordered Walker to hold onto this, and he asked me to give it to Flight Officer Kaneshiro—I imagine that's _you_—if he fell asleep."

"An Alliance mobile suit manual? We've warehouses full of these things," Kanna asked.

"Wow, this brings back memories," Ajay said, taking it and flipping to a page at random.

"Read the notes at the back, _sirs_," the medic explained before rolling her eyes. "The flight lieutenant filled several pages. Ever stay up all night cramming for an exam in school?"

"More than once," Kanna admitted.

"And how did you do in the morning if you blacked out? Not a bad idea really," she explained as Mazuri found the last pages that were filled with Walker's hastily scribbled diagrams and notes.

"Colonel North will need to see these, but he's not here anymore."

"Not my problem sir, I'm purely on the _treating_ injury side of the equation," the medic insisted, taking a set of multi-colored sheets stapled to one another and holding them in Kanna's face as she floated upwards. "Causing and receiving them is the Mobile Suit Troop's job."

Bishop chuckled at her remark as Kanna took the medical report from her. Walker had opened his eyes again and had begun shivering, clutching the thermal blanket tighter.

"Was it always this cold on the _Europa_?"

"It's the umbilical docking section, it's always cold here," Levinsky explained.

"Almost forgot, Taichō, this is Pilot Officer Levinsky, from Squadron Three, we picked him up when his flight wiped by a defensive platform."

"Welcome back, Flight Lieutenant! I'm not sure if you remember, but we met…before…" Levinsky explained before trailing off gradually as a half-asleep Walker gave a nod in agreement.

Kanna gave the others a bemused look. "How about we let the flight lieutenant get some sleep before we figure out what our next move is?"

Dac gave her a wary look while holding Walker in place to keep him from floating off. "There's going to be another move?"

To the surprise of others, though not so much himself, Walker slept for just under four hours before he woke to find himself tucked tightly into one of the two beds in the third room from the entrance to the pilot's rest quarters. He checked the clock on the wall: he hadn't slept for much longer than he'd been able to regularly while in D-120. His arms and legs were a still sore, and he still felt cold—in short, how he remembered feeling back on D-120. Trying to will himself back into mental clarity, he sat up in bed and confirmed he was alone before spotting a small package on the shared counter.

"Eat this—Kanna," he read the note stuck on the package aloud before opening it. It was a Japanese-style box lunch, a popular alternative to the normal rations issued by the Space Forces among the mobile suit pilots for its convenience as well as its taste. Wondering if he had the appetite to finish it, he was poking through the contents with a pair of chopsticks when Kanna slid the door into the room open and found him.

"Taichō, you're up!" she said before her smile faded. "Can you eat?"

"Oh, I'm fine," he assured her. "I'm just trying to find the last of the salmon. I heard somewhere salmon's very good for you."

Very carefully, he took the boxed lunch and put it down. "Where are we, right now?"

"You mean the _Europa_? We're about two-hundred eighty kilometers from D-120's axis, offloading and taking on supplies. Don't worry, we're safe."

"Good," he mumbled with a full mouth. "And North?"

"Colonel North's on his way to Luna to take some reserve troops to hit the edges. Apparently that's where D-120's fleet is right now."

"And he thinks they're going to flank us in the middle of the siege?"

"Seems like it, Chief."

"That's probably a wise decision," Walker said thoughtfully, before offering Kanna some of the boxed meal.

"No thanks, I already had three," she confessed with a laugh, while Walker finished the rest of the meal slowly and deliberately.

"Kanna, can I ask you something?"

She cocked her head a little. "'Course I can. Go ahead."

"It's sort of a difficult question," he admitted.

Kanna's exchanged turned from warm to cold and unhappy. "This is about the whole 'P.O.W.' thing isn't it?"

Walker pressed. "Am I fit to be your ranking officer?"

Kanna's jaw went slack and she stood their silently.

"I mean, it's not really a stretch to say that of the three active pilots our flight, I may very well be the least-capable pilot. Obviously, that's distinct from command-level abilities, but it's not wholly separate from that…" he began.

Abruptly standing at attention, she cut him off. "Sir! Flight Lieutenant Walker, may I be excused, sir?" she shouted.

Walker stared at her. _So much for that._ "Go ahead."

"Thank you, sir!"

Kanna anxiously floated off while Walker wearily sat on the mattress he'd woken up in, grasping one hand in the other as it all came back to him. In the Middle Eastern Air Army's 44th Special Airborne 1st Company, when he'd assumed commander duties in Squadron 2, he'd remained a flight officer—an entirely normal matter, but not one he was prepared to handle. The three combat wings he exercised operational commander over were prepared to be managed as such—there were certainly better pilots among them, but Walker had a company-level leadership qualification and high scores on airborne doctrine tests. Their job was to help fill in the gaps of knowledge of their former colleague as necessary while following orders as if he were an _actual _OF-2.

Of course, it didn't always work. Just like there were better pilots, there were also those who had criticism—valid criticism included. One pilot, the fourth seat in Squadron 2's third wing, described Walker as "Unable to handle the inadequate and incompetency of certain pilots in the squadron." And she told him to his face, in the company of a half-dozen other pilots after he'd concluded a briefing.

She had that right: it wasn't insubordination. Rank was not an issue. Walker stood there, given her reason for putting a request in for transfer. The concise words rattled in his brain for the first time since his promotion to flight lieutenant, as well as their implication—that _he _was the certain pilot in question.

He remembered the response he gave.

_"I see, of course then."_ One of his generic statements of passive acknowledgement.

He could replay the whole incident perfectly in his mind's eye. But what happened to that pilot? He had no idea. The reassignment went to the Central Asian Air Army out of West China. He remembered, very clearly, that he'd been relieved by all this, even his rather clumsy response. That pilot had been driving his blood pressure up for weeks—he'd actively hoped for a transfer out of his squadron, or even to another company. Being a flight leader was artery-tightening enough without her, a reassignment to another Air Army was practically a gift.

_A gram of humility, worth a hundred of pride. _

An old if uncharacteristic motto of the Special Troops, maybe a lesson against the dangers of arrogance.

"They're dead now, sir."

He immediately looked over his shoulder. "Excuse me, Ajay?"

Mazuri pushed his thin-rimmed glasses up his nose as Walker floated off the mattress gradually. "You looked like you were thinking about your old unit. And if you were, they're almost all dead. The Middle East Air Army was wiped out at Corsica, and the ones who weren't were in Western Asia. Those units had catastrophic attrition rates during the…" he began, trailing off. Walker was staring at him thoughtfully and he smiled. "You have a very particular look, Flight Lieutenant, when you're thinking about that sort of thing."

Walker held back a chuckle. "Am I really so predictable?"

"I wouldn't say predictable," he assured him quickly. "Any orders, Flight Lieutenant?"

He threw up his arms in exasperation. "Call a briefing in five. Even if we're staying on standby, I need to say something, don't I?"

Mazuri gave a cryptic shrug before adding, "Yes sir." He was about to add how calling three other people wasn't much effort either, but stopped himself. When they returned five minutes later, they found a still haggard-looking Walker standing in the corner of the ready room, staring at a map pinned to the wall.

"You changed finally!" Dac observed. Walker now wore a clean OZ Space Forces working jumpsuit.

"And I showered too," Walker retorted, not taking his eyes off the map while Kanna elbowed Dac in the ribs.

He had a whole speech prepared, not a good one, but a speech nonetheless, assuring them that his time as a prisoner-of-war had been barely memorable and thoroughly un-noteworthy. He hadn't been tortured, he hadn't even been treated particularly badly. He turned and was going to begin, only to be cut off by the crew address system.

"_Attention all mobile suit pilots—by that, I mean Walker Flight. This is the Captain. I've read a copy of the notes you took on your time in captivity. Now, we've begun receiving field observations from the D-120 colony torus, and I think you'll want to see it. We're are patching it through to your own Ops Halo projector, standby._"

Immediately, Dac brushed past Kanna and swept aside a number of log books left on the Halo projection table, letting them float away just as it lit up and a hologram shimmered into view, forming the urban landscape of the colony's interior. A flat, two-dimensional video image, some sort of street-level field recording, they could tell, was extrapolated into an animated three-dimensional model, with the portion of original footage highlighted in truer coolers than the extrapolation.

"We've got video, Captain, what are we looking at it? Probe data?"

"_Negative, Flight Lieutenant, this is video from CAST infiltrators._"

"It's definitely from the Military Quarter," Walker murmured as Kanna leaned forward for a better look, propping her arms against opposite sides of the projection table.

"At the risk of sounding stupid sir, _what _are we looking at, Captain? Video from the right after the last barrage?" Kanna asked.

"_Give it a second, Flight Officer._"

Abruptly a row of buildings along a narrow street seemed to fold up onto themselves, like the contents of a table flipped by its side, vanishing in a cloud of smoke. As the digital dust settled, a very large, angular red object could be seen advancing, as the cameraman rapidly took cover, the video ending.

"_Colonel North may have to hold-off on beginning a formal inquiry, Flight Lieutenant_," the speaker announced.

"What the hell was that?" Mazuri asked.

"That was a mobile armor," Walker muttered, finding the key to rewind the footage before pausing at a point where the large, hazy object was at its most red. "In the Military Quarter. They got it out of the hangar," he muttered.

"Mobile armor? Was _that _in your report?" Kanna asked.

"We need to get there, now," Walker muttered nervously, now shouting and pointing with a finger. "If—when they're only able to deploy that weapons system _inside _the colony torus, they'll have no choice but to dig themselves in! They'll make us clear out every bloc in the city, one by one!" he explained, before looking up.

"That makes sense—whatever this _thing _is, the primary advantages of our Taurus troops are mobility and firepower. Slugging it out in distances of meters, not hundreds or thousands of meters, deprives us of both of them," Mazuri noted.

"Captain, I need to speak to Lieutenant Colonel North immediately!"

The captain's voice had taken a tone of urgency as well. "_We'll see what we can do, Walker, but I can't make any promises. In the meantime?_"

"There's no meantime _or _time," Walker muttered, leaping for the ready room door. "Walker Flight will launch immediately!"

Levinsky finally spoke. "Wait, are you sure you should do that, sir? You just got back, you haven't even…" he began before a sudden push from Mazuri sent him after Walker.

"There'll be plenty of time for questions later, sonny," Mazuri assured him. "All our equipment is standing by on the carrier."

Kanna punched a fist into a palm. "Fine, then, we've got a plan!" she announced through gritted teeth.

**V**

The invasion force's new field commander wasted no time in exercising her command.

"_All ships and callsigns, this is Lieutenant Colonel Soris Armonia. I am now acting commander of the Seventh Division and the coordinating Space Forces. We will now begin a direct invasion of L1-D-120, spearheaded by the First Recon Battalion. I will be joining them personally in Suivant Flight._"

A pause.

"_Your orders have gone out. Earth expects all of its children will do their duty._"

"Well, she's right about the orders part," Squadron Commander Ogasawara muttered to herself inside the cockpit of her Taurus, checking one of her MFDs. Despite the state of the battlefield, at least here their military datalink still worked.

"Damocles Actual to Excalibur, Falchion and Changdao callsigns—return to formation and take my vector. We're covering the combat engineers to the insertion points."

"_Excalibur Actual to Damocles Actual, acknowledged._"

"_Changdao Actual, affirmative._"

"_Falchion Actual to Damocles 1-1, acknowledged._"

Four squadrons of Taurus troops—thirty-six mobile suits, half the combat troops in the 1st Recon Battalion—formed a heavily-armed combat line that pushed as one directly into the center of the increasingly-fragmented last defense line, comprised mostly of battered mobile suits and ships of the Reserve Army and defensive fleet.

"_Take your positions at the outer structure and hold them, we will be relieved by the Seventh Division_," Emi ordered, as her machine obliterated a defensive beam turret and took cover in its wreckage.

"_You're sure about that, Emichan?_" asked F/O Syed Khan.

"_If I'm wrong, we'll know real fast._"

The rearmost Recon Battalion troops remained airborne, covering carrier ships from the 7th Division's Combat Engineers Battalion. The rearmost mobile suit carrier was struck by gunship fire, leading the troops it was carrying to immediately disembark and proceed under their own power.

"_Damn it, fighters, can you do something about those gunships?_"

The lead fighter craft quickly responded. "_Negative, Damocles Actual—we're out of ordinance as it is, and barely able to keep screening for Noventan bogeys. We'll try and keep them off you and the fleet, but we can't make any promises_." OZ's own space fighters, the same designs as their Noventan enemies, were still being dragged into prolonged dogfights where the enemy could unload all of their guided missiles and ammunition liberally before retreating to defensive ships or the colony itself to rearm, a luxury OZ lacked.

"_If they don't keep screening, our destroyers are gonna' have a problem_," F/O Motta reminded her.

"_Yeah, I get that Damocles 1-2_," she snapped back while engaged with an increasingly aggressive flight of Space Leos. "_Forget about establishing complete superiority, just get those engineers into the colony! We can't do all the work!_"

The 1st Recon Battalion's strategy was working—with the static defenses neutralized and the cover from the Taurus troops, the two leading mobile suit carriers were able to reach the relative cover of the colony torus before disengaging their payloads: twenty-four cobalt blue mobile suits from the 91st Colonial Engineering Battalion, armed primarily with Type 6 Beam Rifles.

In the lead machine, Pilot Officer Liu switched to manual air-ground mode, used specifically for engineering rather than combat operations. "Spade 2-1 to all Spade callsigns, hit the surface as fast as you can and keep your head down! Turrets more than three-hundred meters away have enough depression to hit us—if you think the Taurus troops missed a turret, shoot it and ask later!"

"_Acknowledged, Spade 2-1!_"

Through his monitors, he could see the other mobile suits clamoring with him towards a sealed maintenance bulkhead. The first two machines that reached it, Spade 2-3 and Spade 2-4, immediately bashed their manipulators against the thin shielding that hid the manual override gears.

"So, we can't just have the Taurus troops blow a hole with their beam cannons, and we can't use nuclear weapons. So what _can _we do?" he asked, knowing the answer.

"_Cut_," a reply came, matter-of-factly over the channel, as the first of many bulkheads began to retract, having been forced open manually. As if previously distracted, a beam turret barely 700 meters downrange leveled its barrels at them and fired, severing Spade 2-4's right arm from its torso in a flash.

"_Take cover!_" Liu aimed and fired his first shot in retaliation, which only lit up part of the beam turret's armored housing with a yellow glow, before the entire turret exploded. Overhead, a circling Taurus troops was brandishing its own Type 12 beam rifle at where the turret had been.

"_Hurry up guys, we don't have all day!_" one of the Recon Battalion pilots warned him.

"Yes, I see that, thank you!" Liu shouted back at her as the first barrier was lifted open, revealing the sealed bulkhead behind it. Spade 2-1 and 2-2 switched to their machine's wrist-mounted plasma arc torches and immediately went for the vulnerable parts of the bulkhead frame.

Far behind them, amid a group of six rapid deployment carriers, Walker's flight made last preparations before going into battle again. Inside the living spaces on their own carrier, Walker took the bulky carrying case for a sky blue military normal suit—roughly the size and shape of a large piece of luggage, and unzipped it, finding its contents waiting for him where he'd left them.

"You're sure you're up for this, sir? Maybe you ought to be easing back into this."

Checking the seals for his normal suit's boots and gloves, Walker glanced over his shoulder. "I know things look bad when you're actually remembering to call me 'sir' Ajay," he replied.

"I had to try," Mazuri said, flashing a smile. "Back in the East African Military District, I didn't have a single commanding officer die on me. Before I met you people, anyway."

"Not exactly a turbulent flashpoint, Africa."

"That is true," he conceded before pulling on his own helmet. "See you outside, sir."

Walker rolled his eyes and finished with his gloves. Dac and Levinsky, already sealed into their normal suits, floated past him and towards the carrier's bow and the pilot's compartment. Kanna came floating in after them, her mop of red hair bobbing in the microgravity.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better, though not great," he confessed immediately. "Though I suppose if personal comfort was that important to me, I wouldn't have gotten into this line of work in the first place."

"At least they didn't beat you with bamboo rods during your captivity," Kanna offered.

"No, they didn't." He glanced at her, a little surprised at her point. "God, I hope I haven't lost my touch."

"Me too. Still, if there's some Alliance superweapon sitting in the middle of D-120, we gotta' take it out or else, right?"

Walker nodded turned to her and gave a grave nod.

"Even if you or I don't come back again," she added.

"Yes," he told her, his voice a little tight. "But I'm sure you will. Levinsky told me you saved him while he was pinned down by a camouflaged platform, a tough nut to crack."

Kanna forced a weak laugh. "The Noventans are pulling out all of their weird tricks, I guess. All I really did back then was grab him, the flight carrying Septim's telescopes actually sank the platform," she explained.

"Telescopes?" Walker asked, while Kanna immediately looked like she regretted something she'd said. "What telescopes?"

"No one's told you. We really need to read all the fine print—the Seventh _Strategic Aerospace _Division went into Outer Space with tactical nuclear weapons, they just never took them out of _Barge _until now."

Walker stared at her, silent. "_Sirs, we're coming up on the deployment zone, T-minus three hundred,_" Levinsky's voice came over the speakers calmly.

Kanna continued muttering. "Before he left, Colonel North authorized using tactical nuclear weapons against hardened military targets around D-120. I doubt he or anyone could approve their use _inside _the colony, but depending on whatever that monster mobile armor does...I don't even know," she confessed.

A stunned Walker stared at Kanna, who frowned in return. "What were _you _thinking of?"

"Nothing," Walker claimed finally, turning down the access tunnel, when he felt something hold his shoulder back—one of Kanna's large hands. He looked back at her, waiting to hear an interjection. Instead, nothing.

Walker looked down the central accessway to see Levinsky speaking directly with Dac, then the other way to see Mazuri pull himself up into his own access hatch and disappear into his machine's cockpit compartment.

He swallowed and spoke quietly. "I used a consumer digital reader the Noventans gave me to sabotage the outer doors of the dry dock where that mobile armor was being armed. I thought that if I succeeded I could keep it from being used against the navy and _Barge_, where it'd be the most dangerous."

He clenched his jaw and looked up at Kanna's dark, calm face, with streaks of unkempt red hair reaching over her forehead. "Thank you, sir."

"For what?"

She took a moment. "For telling me the truth, Flight Lieutenant Walker."

He cocked his head a little. "The truth belongs to _all_, Flight Officer Kaneshiro," he quoted aloud before giving a sad smile. Kanna's violet eyes lit up slightly and she gave him a light tap with her helmet before spinning herself upside-down and reaching for the hatchway that led to her own machine. Walker did much the same, propelling himself to the hatch, pulling it open, and then climbing through the umbilical tube to the familiar cockpit of his OZ-12SMS.

_Thanks for not adjusting the seats too much, Kanna_, he thought—it brought a smile to his face—before pulling on his helmet, activating the magnetic seals, and pulling on the lever to shut the cockpit door.

**VI**

As the regular combat troops from the 7th Division disengaged from their carriers and descended on D-120's shadow, the first squadrons of the 91st Combat Engineers Battalion were emerging through the safest insertion points into the colony torus—those maintenance ways running behind the artificial sky, where distance and the colony's weather afforded them some very basic cover.

The second Spade flight, led by Liu, descended from the artificial sky as subtly as they could manage, slowing down with short bursts from their vernier thrusters before hitting the street level with loud _clangs_. Their presence didn't go entirely unnoticed—within minutes of their landing, several blocks away along the invisible border between Old Town and the business district, two patrols of Reserve Army troops ran through the snow, trying to get a power vantage point. In their hurry and discomfort from the cold, they completely failed to notice the six-man CAST squadron that was hidden between two parked automobiles, snow sticking to their armored normal suits.

"Temperatures still dropping," the second soldier in the line said to the first, his assault rifle still raised.

"Looks like those teams from the Military Commissariat did their job," the first soldier replied to the first.

"So long as their datalink stays down and they have to rely on radio, it sounds like the second team did too."

Several blocks away, an explosion rumbled, echoing loudly but not directly visible in the falling snow. Visibility had progressively gotten worse over the last hour. "Split to two, we'll recon on street level, you take the high and watch for any anti-mobile weapons."

"Yes sir."

The team split into two groups of three and immediately ran in opposite directions, leaving boot prints in the snow behind them. The explosion they had heard were from the Reserve Army's Leo mobile suits firing dober guns and autocannons at the combat engineers as they tried to move up. By then, a few black blurs of Taurus troops in flight mode were visible, not far below the artificial ceiling.

"_Winthrop to all friendlies—visibility poor at high altitude. Spade 2-1, watch for the four hostiles down the street, downspin your position,_" the Taurus commander announced, indicating the position of four enemy mobile suits about ten blocks away, in the direction opposing D-120's spin.

The combat engineers were already moving their machines into urban cover. "_We see them, Arrow Actual, moving to…hey, what the hell is the leader carrying?_"

Liu zoomed in with his primary camera. "Is that…is that a gatling gun?"

Physically assisted by a second mobile suit, the lead Reserve Army Leo was brandishing a six-barreled ballistic gatling gun, which it could barely lift above its knees. Under the gun itself he spotted a massive ammunition drum, almost as large as a Leo's torso.

"_Spade 2-1 to Arrow Actual, I think…oh crap_," Liu responded before his machine toppled fell backwards and behind the office block. At the same time, the six barrels began to spin steadily before a four-second-long, high volume burst of HEAM ammunition completely obliterated the office block at the intersection, turning it from bricks, mortar and steel into a swirling cloud of particles much faster than any autocannon could have.

"_What the hell was that?_"

"_Command to all callsigns, enemy units of the Reserve Army appear to be outfitted with some…nonstandard weapons, please advise accordingly. Information on mobile weaponry will be relayed to units in the field upon review._"

Despite taking cover, Liu's mobile suit had taken damage on its lower legs. "_This is Spade 2-1, no shit Headquarters!_"

"_And where the hell is Suivant Flight?_" another combat engineer shouted over the channel.

"_They're still pinned down outside, apparently enemy space forces have some weapon that fucks with Suivant 2's shields!_" another answered.

"Oh, fat lot of good for us," Liu muttered as a missile impact shook the street beneath him, jolting him in his seat. Though they'd undergone some training in that area, urban combat was still the opposite of what OZ's Colonial Combat Engineers could prepare for—there just wasn't enough equipment, nor direct fire support from the navy, nor…

Liu turned his camera slightly, trying to see through the snowfall and the rising cloud of smoke and dust further out from the business district.

"Do you see that?" he asked before being blinded by his own displays before they immediately darkened.

Outside, at an AMGM nest set up by the Reserve Army, the CAST commandos were blinded longer, forcing them to take cover among the dead Reserve Army anti-mobile suit squad they'd killed.

A long, extremely bright charged particle wave had burned clearly through several rows of buildings, from the Military Quarter to the business district, leaving a half-block wide blasted-out pathway behind them. The charred husks of Spade 2-2 and 2-3, who'd been caught in the blast, crumbled to their knees before their reactors exploded in much smaller fireballs. Propped up against the AMGM launcher set up on the roof of a storefront, one of the CAST men wiped the caked-on ash from his helmet's visor, waited for his vision to return, and tried to ascertain what had happened.

"The snow stopped falling," another one, still on his back, announced.

"I see that." Where they stood, about two blocks from the scar left by the attack, the accumulated snow had turn to pools of evaporating water. "Command, can you hear me? This is CAST Beta. CAST Alpha, can you hear me? Am I getting through to anyone?"

Inside the cockpit of Chrysanthemum's mobile suit core, Captain Soletta listened to the garbled CAST transmission while tapping the switches on her communications suite. The other MFD indicated that the starboard double beam cannons were gradually returning to normal operating temperatures, but that the power subsystem was still some ways from being able to produce another blast at full-power. She switched its focus to her other weapons systems, bringing up her six air-to-air missile pods and switching her HUD from manual air-air to automatic air-air.

"Looks like that first shot fried some of their field radios," she noted. "They're not as well-shielded as we thought."

The Taurus troops above her had recovered from the shock of watching two friendlies vaporized in one blast before swarming together and switching out of fighter mode. Forcing herself to remain calm, she jerked back on one of the flight sticks and felt Chrysanthemum lurch backwards on its massive vernier engines, their thrust vectored directly downwards. She quickly angled off the avenue she'd started in and into short storefront behind her, demolishing it like a toy model; Chrysanthemum barely shook from the impact. Looking upwards, she checked her automatic target designators, raised her angle of attack as angled by the pitch scale—further demolishing the buildings unfortunate enough to be behind her mobile armor—and then squeezed the trigger again. One air-to-air missile emerged from each missile pod before changing course and darting upwards, leaving long trails of exhaust behind them.

The active radar homing guidance of Chrysanthemum's missiles had immediately alerted the enemy Taurus troops, which scattered and deployed chaff and flare. The torus' artificial sky meant a maximum flight ceiling of under 4,000 meters—well within the range of the missiles. One Taurus was able to shoot the incoming missile down with its beam rifle, another two succeeded in using their countermeasures to steer the missile to the artificial sky, where it harmlessly exploded. One managed to outturn the missile, leading it to vanish into the clouds before exploding somewhere behind them. Two were hit—one lost its right manipulator arm, the other lost its leg and the pilot ejected and plummeted to the cityscape below, resulting in a new column of fire.

"One crippled, one down!" The remaining Taurii were none too pleased and what had just happened, and immediately retaliated with their own beam rifles. Even from above, Chrysanthemum's mobile suit core was too small a target, and their shots dissipated harmlessly against the thick forward hull as she changed her angle.

In her cockpit, Flight Lieutenant Winthrop cursed and pounded her fist against the furniture. "Damn it, doesn't she know she'll wreck the whole city at this rate? Arrow Actual to all callsigns, we've found the Republican Guard's mobile armor, it's shooting up everything in Old Town! The engineers are already pinned down, we need backup!"

"_Command to Arrow Actual, reinforcements are en route—we're sending you what we have. Enemy mobile armor is designated EA-01MA1. Combat engineers, we still need you to secure more insertion points for the rest of Space Forces, units that made it inside, cover them—only engage the mobile armor as necessary!_"

"That's your battle plan?" Winthrop demanded incredulously.

"_Arrow Actual, we're working on it. Suivant 1 and Suivant 2 will be there soon, let them deal with the mobile armor if you have to!_"

"Then thanks for nothing!" she retorted, jinking left to avoid ground fire, this time from a pair of mobile suits armed with dober guns. "And what the hell are this many ground mobile suits doing in a space colony?"

In her own cockpit, Soletta watched the Taurus troops scatter further, disappearing in and out of the clouds before her helmet's headset crackled.

"_Where's our armour support?_"

"_Artillery and howitzers are being slowed down by all the debris in the streets! Bring up the Tragos!_"

Killing her ground effect jet thrusters, Chrysanthemum sank behind the cover of a tall parking garage, and she brought up one of her secondary cameras. Two Reserve Army mobile suits used their manipulator arms and shoulders to swiftly demolish a two-story toy store between two taller office buildings. As the bricks collapsed into a pile across the street, an OZ-07MS slowly crawled forward. The Tragos was missing its hovercraft engine and even large parts of its leg, instead being grafted to a crude-looking tracked artillery carriage. It still had both of its long-barreled dual artillery cannons, which it raised slightly once it was in position, then fired with two deafening blasts. The two shots vanished downrange before exploding two kilometers away, well behind the combat engineers, partway up the torus rotation.

"_You're overshooting them! Adjust by zero-two-zero!_" one of the Leo spotters shouted.

As the cloud of dust cleared from behind their position, ruins came into view that made the ruined storefront barely noticeable—the pathway of errant destruction carved out by Chrysanthemum as it moved forward from its point of emergence in the Military Quarter, a massive hole that reached into concrete-and-steel framework of the torus superstructure, open like a gaping maw at least three blocks wide, with smoke and fire still pouring out of it. Reserve Army infantry, armour and light vehicles scurried past it towards the frontlines.

Momentarily distracted, Soletta was still watching when another voice shouted through the channel more clearly. "_Come on, comrades, not one step back! Quirinale is behind us! Dio salvi l'Alleanza!_"

"_Dio salvi l'Alleanza!_"

"Dio salvi l'Alleanza," she mumbled softly before engaging her ground-effect engines and aiming her dual beam cannons again.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_Another chapter that came out almost two weeks behind schedule (though my only defense is that I'm still updating fairly fast given just how many words I end up churning out!) and was longer than expected. __Finally, we get to see Chrysanthemum in action, even if it's only for a few minutes. I totally promise an epic showdown with it in the next chapter (that's actually going to be almost the whole next chapter unless I think of something else to add)._

_So, I wish I could have told you, the reader, this before you got to it-but every time you read, "There's a Gundam...__" __you really owe it to yourself to play your copy of _Wings of a Boy Who Killed Adolescence_, which is a critical part of the _Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account _soundtrack, alongside TWO-MIX's greatest hits. That makes the next few paragraphs at least three times as enjoyable! _

_After some debate, and consulting with very helpful sources, I've come to the conclusion that when not in microgravity, Chrysanthemum moves around using ground-effect thruster engines similar to the iconic MS-09B Dom from _Mobile Suit Gundam _and later appearances in the UC Gundam universe. Decently plausible, given that After Colony's industrial and technological advancement seems to be in the area of UC 0096 if not further, and for its size, Chrysanthemum probably is only the weight of two fully-loaded Dom mobile suits (thanks to Wing's incredibly light mobile equipment in general!). It can hardly bank on a dime, but movement under its own power is definitely possible. You have to think that the final showdown with Chrysanthemum would be a lot more boring if it just sat in the hole it emerged from in the Military Quarter. _

_The other part of this chapter is Walker's awkward return to his unit, but no rest of the weary (or the wicked as the case may be). Hopefully there was at least a tiny bit of emotional character development there, even if he was only captive for a few days. I think Mazuri got his chance to shine in this chapter, at least compared to his normal absence in a lot of chapters (shameful, really). He's always been the odd man out, being an Alliance-turned-OZ pilot and lacking deep social connections to his OZ comrades accordingly. 'Aloof' might be a good way to describe him._

_As always, leave any feedback you can think of, and thanks for sticking with me this far. The D-120 arc is finally coming to its close!_


	50. Colonyfall

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 50 – Colonyfall**

"Lady Une."

With a high-powered military telescope, it was possible to see the Battle of L1-D-120 from the overbridge aboard Space Fortress _Barge_, but Flight Officer Nichol preferred to rely on the steady stream of combat updates sent by the OZSS _Europa _and other cruisers. For the time being, they seemed much less muddled and confusing, if not particularly optimistic in their own right.

_No one seriously thinks OZ will lose this battle. Even knowing that, though, I wouldn't start hanging victory banners yet. _From the back of the overbridge, Nichol kept staring at Lieutenant Colonel Une, waiting for the OZ Space Forces Commander-in-Chief to respond. _Still, I guess I should be grateful she even came out._

"What is it?"

_Ever since that debacle with Zechs Merquise, she seemed more comfortable waiting back at the legation on C-102. I really didn't expect her here, even now. _"We've finished our battlefield assessment. Should I bring it up?"

"Do it."

On the large display on the side wall, the video feed from _Barge_'s telescopes was replaced by a colorful graphical representation which paused for a moment before zooming out to scale. "The Noventa Strategic Offensive Operation's naval taskforce, is maintaining its perimeter around L1-D-120, well beyond their insertion point through Midway. Though there are still a number of enemy ships and defensive positions in operation, but not enough to completely encircle the colony—as such, units of the Seventh Division have begun to launch 'breakthroughs', and a few have even entered the colony itself."

In the middle of the screen, the colony was highlighted as a bright point.

"Unfortunately, due to both our own electronic warfare and D-120's construction, transmission out of the colony is intermittent. Colonial and Asteroid Strike Troops were deployed days earlier, and are harassing the defenders by targeting communication systems, supply lines and the weather control center."

"And Colonel North?"

"The primary ex-Alliance Space Fleet, under rogue commander Arroway, is threatening the smaller Space Forces units that severed the enemy lines. Colonel North is moving to counter their flank, it would seem."

"Personally?"

"Yes, Lady Une. He's taken the reserves from Second Division on Luna."

"Which means they won't have any nuclear weapons which they could easily wipe out Arroway's fleet with," Une contemplated with a hint of amusement.

"Then why would he go intercept them _now_?" Une demanded, as though it was Nichol's idea.

Nichol shrank away—he was tired of getting blamed for things he had no control over. "I don't think he had a choice, my Lady."

Une seemed placated by the simple response and titled her head. "Then it's all up to Soris Armonia."

"It certainly appears that way, ma'am." Nichol gave a disguised sigh of relief—he wasn't sure how Une would take the news, but from her tone, it seemed like she was content to wait it out. _She can do whatever she wants. So long as it doesn't involve Trowa Barton._

On the other side of the first Lagrange point, in Luna's expansive Marius Crater Industrial Complex underground, Colonel Tubarov Villemont sat in a converted factory foreman's office, watching a similar if cruder computer feed.

"How's the war going?" he humorlessly asked one of his assistants, wearing a dark grey working uniform, who immediately snapped to his feet and turned from the screen.

"Fine, sir! Fine! I'll return to the floor and…"

"Hold on," he ordered. "I've missed much of the operation. Have they entered the colony yet?" he asked, genuinely interested.

The assistant relaxed. "They just did by the looks of it, sir—the First Recon Battalion carved out an opening and a few combat engineers and Taurus troops followed."

"How many?"

The assistant had no idea. "Barely a dozen, I think."

"_Now_ get back to work," the chief engineer ordered and the assistant departed. Since the incident at the Ruhr Valley Factory's testing range, which he replayed in his mind once more, he'd made a point of working with as few military engineers from Earth as possible. _The problem with relying on Luna's staff is that there just aren't that many of them. At least Artemis Sedici's boy is proving amenable. _

Turning away from the monitor, he looked out the office's bay windows—on one side, the assembly floor, on the other, the floor space for the finished units that would be moved into storage. To him it felt that manufacturing was faster on Luna, components were more easily moved in low gravity, materials had shorter distances to travel once delivered, and there were no labor laws mandating worker-demanding smoking breaks outside.

Putting his arms behind his back, he permitted himself a private smile. _I know it's a cliché, but I don't think anything will stop me now. Not at this pace. _

**II**

"_Falcon 3-1 to Falcon 2-1. How was your time at L4_?"

Flight Lieutenant Chernenko felt the magnetic seams of his normal suit before checking his oxygen hose. "Boring, Falcon Actual. Once they decided to become civilized anyway. Glad they called me back."

Deploying from the rear lines, the nine OZ-12SMS units, callsign Falcon, launched from their rapid deployment carriers and formed a tight formation.

"_So is it over?_"

"I can't say—Andretti's still wrapping things up over there," Chernenko admitted.

"_Falcon Actual here—cut the chatter. Stay in formation, we're to rendezvous with Suivant Flight after they deploy._"

"Acknowledged Falcon Actual," Chernenko replied dutifully. "Anyone see Suivant Flight, they're not coming up on my radar presently."

"_Well, they _are _Gundams, sir._"

"Smartass," Chernenko muttered while checking his secondary cameras. "I see them, on the sled, between the Leo carriers. Look like they're trying the sneaky approach."

"_All units, enemy cruiser inbound, heading three-zero-zero high!_"

Chernenko looked up. "I see it! It's BC-99!"

A modern battlecruiser in Alliance gunmetal grey was rapidly baring down at them, the EASFS _Amalthea_. From below, in the opposite direction, a smaller cruiser of similar design altered its heading and accelerated to flanking speed.

"_Another cruiser, heading one-four-five, below! They're going for a pincer!_"

"_The Noventans are learning!_" Falcon 2-1 declared as the formation began to loosen up. Soon, both ships were laying down withering anti-aircraft screens, though held back on their main guns for fear of striking each other.

"_BC-82_," a voice announced thoughtfully over the channel. "_Isn't that the _Atlas, _dear sister? Think they've got a taste for revenge?_"

"_Please keep your theories to yourself, Soris_," Luna Armonia responded in kind, as the Leo motherships adjacent to them were peppered with fire.

"_Don't worry, Your Ladyship, we came prepared for exactly this. Falcon 2-1, do your thing!_" Falcon Actual ordered as the swarm of Taurii split apart completely.

Chernenko switched his HUD to manual air-air mode, than brought up his weapons controls—his Taurus only carried two weapons, and one of them was the standard general-use beam rifle. The other was a nonstandard weapon he'd been ordered to swap his beam cannon for—the Type 81 Single Missile Launch System, armed with a missile mounting an 800 mm MIRV payload of thermonuclear warheads.

"Telescope Armed!"

"_Please remember, Flight Lieutenant Chernenko, you already have permission from the battlefield commander to use thermonuclear weapons as you see fit on an appropriate target._" The academic-sounding reminder came from one of the two mobile suits ferried by the small OZ carrier sled, a modification of the older tandem Leo mobile suit carrier vehicle.

"_A little worried, Luna_?" another voice teased. That was Soris Armonia.

"Falcon 2-1 moving into position, Falcon 2-2 and 2-3 cover me!" he announced as the starfield on his monitors spun rapidly for a few seconds before panning. Free of the formation, it took little effort to position himself below the larger of the two cruisers, the _Amalthea_. The rest of the Taurii had already begun flanking the _Atlas_, with command unit's brandishing their large beam cannons. Neither cruiser had responded, instead focusing on the carriers.

"_We're taking a lot of fire here…_" a voice from one of the Leo motherships announced before being cut off when its cockpit exploded. By then, Chernenko was in position.

_So who says what an appropriate target is? _He forced himself to smile. "Looking at it differently, I've always wondered what it was like to hold the power to destroy the world. Falcon 2-1, firing for effect!"

The entire mobile suit lurched in the opposite direction as the single huge missile shot out of his SMLS before it took a long, elliptical course to its destination: approximately 100 meters behind the still-accelerating _Amalthea_. Upon reaching that area, there was a brilliant flash brighter than a summer midday, and the visor in Chernenko's helmet polarized itself. He instinctively raised an arm before his head anyway.

The rearward third of the _Amalthea _vanished, vaporized. When visibility returned, the rest of the cruiser looked like a grey-white flower, pealed outwards, practically everything combustible exploded out of it.

It was several seconds before communications returned, and even shielded, they were substantially degraded. "_Confirming the _Amalthea _is sunk!_" someone shouted.

"_Good shooting, Falcon 2-1! The _Atlas _is breaking off. Suivant, your path is clear!_"

"_Acknowledged_," a still-cool voice responded, still distorted. "_Falcon Flight, can you cover the Leos? We've got a straight shot into the colony torus._"

"_Yes ma'am!_" Falcon Actual announced. "_New formation, reverse-delta over the motherships!_"

**III**

Having witnessed the distant flash, the Taurus carrier used by Walker's unit remained in formation, part of the second wave that would bypass preoccupied defenders and enter for direct support of the colony assault teams.

"I see you weren't joking about the thermonuclear weapons," Flight Lieutenant Walker told Flight Officer Kaneshiro, who was leaned halfway into his cockpit.

She didn't seem to hear him. "You're sure you're all right for this, _Taichō_? We still have Levinsky. You could bow out."

"Absolutely," he lied effortlessly. It was easy compared to everything else.

Kanna gave him an unfamiliarly stern look then forced a grin. "Just don't go wandering off again, sir."

"So long as no one orders me to do so," he assured her, his helmet in his lap. He gave her shoulder a gentle push—just enough to get her to back out of his cockpit and allow him to bring the instrumentation down over the hatch. Once shut, he could give a deep, exhausted sigh. He felt faint—shaking it off, he decided to take a count of everything in the otherwise familiar cockpit of his mobile suit.

_Breaching shotgun. Ammunition. Emergency oxygen canister. Reserve parachute. Survival pack. Here we are, first aid kit._

Letting his helmet float away in the small, confining space, he reached for the very small first aid carton wedged next to the survival pack. He yanked open the plastic box and rooted around in it, ignoring the bandages, gauze and disinfectant wipes for a small orange bottle of unremarkable white capsules: generic stimulants.

"Right now, I'd even start smoking again," he mumbled, recalling the nasty habit he'd picked up in technical school. Anything to stave off the creeping fatigue that had returned shortly after they departed the _Europa_. Closing the carton to keep the other supplies from floating out, he began looking for a water bottle.

"I've lost track of Suivant Flight," Pilot Officer Bishop announced from the mothership's flight deck. "You think they bought it in that blast?"

Next to him, P/O Levinsky shook his head quickly. "Negative. No one's that careless with nuclear weapons."

"_So they say_," Kanna gave a warning smirk, from her docked mobile suit.

"God I hope Kanna snaps out of this funk," Levinsky muttered, superfluously putting a hand over his headset mouthpiece. "Walker's back, what more does she want? The war to be over?"

"Actually, I got the impression that the opposite might be the case," Levinsky offered carefully.

Bishop raise an eyebrow at the younger officer before lower his hand. "Hey, Flight Lieutenant…did you have a chance to speak to Aretha?" He leaned towards Levinsky. "His younger sister, stationed on Earth."

There was a pause before Walker answered Dac. "_No, I didn't._"

"_Wait, let's be clear about this—you've just escaped captivity at the hands of the enemy, and you _didn't _say anything to your sister, who serves in the _same army?" Mazuri asked incredulously. "_You are _literally _the worst older brother alive._"

"_I'm really going to need to rethink the level of personal familiarity that is acceptable in this unit_," Walker muttered in response.

"Lay off him, Ajay. Maybe Aretha doesn't even know he was capture in the first place."

"_Oh, because that's so much better, right?_"

Dac sighed and shook his head before giving Levinsky an unmistakable look of helplessness. The younger man pulled at the collar of his normal suit nervously before checking his instrumentation. "We're coming up on the operations point, sirs. Take final preparations before launch."

"_Affirmative_."

"_Acknowledged._"

"_Arrow 2-2 to R.D.C.—Dac, you hear me_?"

He leaned forward. "Loud and clear Kanna, go ahead."

"_I'm getting a lot of vibration from the carrier, in direction of the stern. It could be the thruster bank. Check it out before we get to the op-point, Levinsky'll take the helm._"

"I'm not seeing anything on instrumentation, Arrow 2-2," Levinsky offered.

"What vibration?"

"_Just do it, Bishop__-_shōi_!_" Kanna ordered.

Dac grumbled angrily under his breath before undoing his restraints and swinging himself out of his seat and out of the small pilots' compartment. There was a tone over Levinsky's headset, the telltale sign of a channel switch.

"_Levinsky, it's Kanna over the direct line. While Dac's checking that out, I want you to bring up Arrow 2-1's bio-medical readings and send to be over datalink._"

Levinsky blinked. "Yes ma'am, but…"

"_Just trust me on this, Terentij. Can you do it?_"

"Yes ma'am," he answered warily before punching keystrokes on the auxiliary input by his shoulder. "Sending over datalink now."

"_And keep it between you and me_."

"I had a feeling that was the case," Levinsky muttered as he could hear Bishop climbing back up to the cockpit. There was another tone as Bishop clamored back into his seat.

"Like I said, Kanna, it was nothing—just some loose storage compartments. Suivant Flight has just reappeared!"

"_Acknowledged, Arrow Mothership. Arrow 2-2, Arrow 2-3, standby!_" Walker ordered.

Closer to D-120, the Taurus troops of Falcon and Eagle Flights were weaving their way through the remains of the _Atlas_, large thirty-meter long chunks of the cruiser still clearly recognizable as they passed through an incoming cloud of metal fragments. In the center of the cloud was the misshapen core of what had been the _Amalthea_, substantially less recognizable as a warship.

"_God, no one could have survived that,_" Chernenko's wingman observed.

"_Yes, I see that, Falcon 2-3,_" As if previously distracted, Chernenko's Taurus jettisoned the empty but still massive single-use missile launcher.

"_That happens when you separate the crew on the molecular level_," Falcon 2-2's pilot offered.

"_I get it, cut the chatter and loosen formation!_" he barked at her as the colony torus grew on his forward monitor. The Taurus troops scattered in loose pairs, forming a ring along the flight path of the remaining mobile suit carriers. In the lead, the monoeye cameras belonging to both Suivant mobile suits flashed.

"_We're here_," Luna announced tersely.

"Finally," Soris muttered, pulling her helmet over her orange-red hair and locking the magnetic seals and latches. "You give the order."

"_Yes ma'am_," she replied, unimpressed.

"This is Lieutenant Colonel Soris Armonia, Suivant 1. Vayeate launching!"

As Luna gave the order for the Leo motherships to begin launching their troops, OZ-13SMS1 'Vayeate' disengaged its restraints and immediately fired its hip-mounted verniers, launching itself directly in the direction of the colony torus.

Belatedly Suivant 2 did the same, with OZ-13SMS2 'Mercurius' dropping from the tandem sled and firing its own engines. "This is Flight Officer Luna Armonia, Suivant 2. Mercurius launching for insertion!"

They were fortunate to do so—as the unmanned sled kept falling towards the colony, D-120's own point-defense beam turrets raked it with anti-aircraft fire until it spun wildly out of control and exploded. Behind it, the Leo motherships expelled the remainder of their countermeasures and took gradual evasive maneuvers as they discharged the last of their mobile suits.

"_Falcon 2-1, move in closer, we have to cover the insertion mobile suits! E.T.A. of second wave is ninety seconds!_"

"_Oh, this is the part I hate_…" a pilot of a Leo mobile suit groaned.

"_Next time, we should really see about not doing this twice_," Suivant 1 offered as it danced in and out of fire. "_Suivant 2!_"

"_I'm already on it!_" Suivant 2 responded, instead throwing itself into the middle of the leading Leo squadron, its ten planet defensor discs spinning outwards and forming a protective screen as wide as it could manage—barely enough to cover half of the mobile suits toward the center with its beam-interrupting magnetic field. As if learning, the anti-aircraft turrets redirected their fire towards Suivant 1.

"_It's working, Suivant 2, we're…_" one of the Leo pilots began when a single white-blue laser beam shot forward from a twinkling spot on the torus bracing arm, passed uninterrupted through the top third of Suivant 2's protective field before cutting his mobile suit in half across the torso. Its fusion reactor and fuel cell exploded in very abrupt fireball, showering its neighbors with debris.

"_What was that?_"

"_Solid-state laser defense, just like First Recon warned! Look for the mobile weapon team hiding somewhere on the surface!_" Suivant 2 ordered. "_They're on the bracing arm, check for positions!_"

"_You can be damned sure they're going to be by the breaching point too!_"

"_We can deal with that problem when we get to it! T-minus twenty before rotation is complete!_" A Soris's monitor, a countdown timer appeared in red.

"_Well, what the hell do we do in the meantime, just sit and wait?_" a panicky Leo pilot asked.

"Taurus troops, cover the combat engineers—we're going to need their expertise even more if we miss our entry point," Soris ordered, her left hand rapidly striking keys on her targeting computer and switching her HUD to automatic air-to-ground. She leveled her massive beam cannon, still her only weapon, and a defensive tower rising out of colony torus' dorsal wall that housed short-range communications and targeting sensors. She squeezed the trigger and it vanished in a bath of blinding white particles that could have melted a dozen towers.

"Sure, it'd be easier if we could just shoot our way through, but Luxembourg frowns on those sort of shortcuts. _Europa_, what's the state of enemy naval forces?"

"Europa _to Suivant 1, First Recon has them boxed in out of range of the colony and we're moving to cut them off completely. We are completely prepared on our end, ma'am!_"

The on-screen timer reached zero before turning into a series of red boxes highlighting the passageway into the colony torus. Surrounded by Space Leo troops, Mercurius barely deflected a laser beam with its crash shield before three Leos unleashed a barrage on the offending position, forcing the enemy mobile suits to retreat and the solid-state laser weapon assembled to explode when beam fire punctured its generator.

"_All troops within range, begin 'Citadel' assault phase!_" Soris ordered, as the forward mobile suit troops dove for the gapping maw left from Suivant's earlier attack and the second wave of Taurus troops gradually advanced through the anti-aircraft screen to take their place.

**IV**

The civilian population of L1-D-120 was in hour 13 since the beginning of mandatory evacuation in all wards. Those unfortunate enough to have their designated evacuation zones in the Military Quarter had it worst—cramped shelters crammed between lower-priority storehouses and resource silos, instead of the spacious extensions of metro stations and underground malls that characterized the other neighborhoods and wards. The families of enlisted troops and junior officers were also the first to feel the 'aftershocks' of OZ's re-entry into the colony.

"Oh God, not again—what's the army even doing?"

"Shush!" an old woman warned her daughter, the wife of a Reserve Army noncommissioned officer, as a detail of troops ran by with more important issues on their minds. They were followed by a pair of field medics dragging a wounded officer behind them.

"Why is it so cold?" someone asked in the room, several bunks away.

"I heard OZ destroyed the Weather Control Bureau!"

"No way! They can't do that!"

Above them at street level, at least six centimeters of snow had fallen since OZ's initial retreat. Several city blocks between Old Town and the Military Quarter were ruined, with more than one crushed underneath a fallen enemy mobile suit, its blue livery vanishing under the white snow. Multiple successive perimeters had been formed around the gaping craters that reached down towards the emergency bulkheads, each consisting of infantry and armoured vehicles rather than mobile suits.

"Sir, we've cleared a range for the mobile suits, but we're having trouble setting up a firing line from the fourth floor of the bookstore…" an NCO explained to a Reserve Army officer as a corporal came running up a radio booster pack on his back and saluted, his breath plainly visible as he exhaled.

"Corporal?"

"Lieutenant, sir, we were able to boost our signal past three-hundred…"

"Details, Corporal."

"Sorry, Lieutenant, sir. We've reestablished contact with field headquarters, now they're calling for you. It's, well, urgent sir."

The officer groaned, pushing his helmet up on his head causing some snow to fall from it. "Oh, I bet it is. Us freezing our asses out here near next to a hole in the colony wall, _that's _not urgent," he muttered, gesturing for the handset. Upon receiving it, he put it to his ear and dismissed the NCO, who trudged off in the snow.

"_Second Company, this is Business District HQ. Why haven't you brought up your anti-vehicle and anti-mobile weaponry yet?_"

The lieutenant started yelling unnecessarily back. "Patcher to HQ. We're still at the second line because that's where all of our equipment is! There aren't enough operating vehicles to drag the heavy equipment to the first line, and there won't be enough petrol to keep the vehicles we do have operating for long! I'm ordering men to take heavy machineguns and recoilless guns off their jeeps and _drag _them six blocks, please advise!"

Rubbing his hands together, the corporal carrying the radio on his back waited patiently as his commander got his response.

"_We know the weather change is a surprise to everyone, but you'll just have to make do, Lieutenant!_"

The officer snapped. "SURPRISE? _SURPRISE? _All of our own light vehicles _aren't _winter-proof! The batteries are frozen dead, and the temperature is still dropping! The only units who have functioning vehicles are the goddamn _Mormons!_ How's that for _surprise_?" he screamed back.

There was a spray of blood at eyelevel and the corporal blinked. When he opened his eyes, he found his lieutenant face down in the snow, a small hole in the back of his brown helmet and a pool of red snow expanding rapidly underneath his head. The field telephone handset was still in his hand.

It took him a second to verbalize his thoughts. "Sniper," he whispered, before yelling "Sniper! Sniper, get down!"

The shot came from a four-story tall apartment office building that had been previously raked by defensive fire from Leo mobile suits. "Acceptable shooting, Doc," the CAST noncommissioned officer told Dr. Cebotari, who looked up from the scope of the designated marksman rifle. "You've done this before."

"Well, I was in the army. I think I mentioned that," she gave a breathy reply, causing him to laugh under his balaclava and closed helmet.

"I get the message, ma'am," he said, as both of them dropped down underneath the windowsill and crawled towards the center of the room on their arms and knees. While they moved, several shots echoed some distance away from the second sniper position, and he folded his own rifle's stock and slung it over his back, switching to his machine pistol.

They dropped through the newly-made hole in the middle of the floor to the level below, where Edward Parsons was waiting with another CAST, clutching his coat and shivering.

"I thought this passed for an English summer," Eva asked.

"Oh, hah-bloody-hah-hah."

"I hate to interrupt your fun, but in case the troops on the line wise up and decide to shoot _both _buildings, we should get out of here," the trooper accompanying him explained quickly.

With the sound of covering and suppressing gunfire still echoing behind them, the four descended down the fire escape to the street, then hurried quickly through the alleyway. Through it they quickly arrived at a highly-stylized emergency access way, resembling an underground railway from a 19th century European city but dating back to the colony's original commissioning. At the bottom, in an isolate alcove was more snow and a long-forgotten maintenance room that now housed a dozen CAST commandos and equipment they'd managed to obtain. An armed commando checking his small IFF transponder on his wrist greeted, while the squad leader gave an impromptu briefing.

"So the third line is less than fifty meters behind the second, forming a wider circle," he explained, sketching a diagram with a piece of chalk on a nearby brick wall. "We're seeing…hundred-ten, hundred-twenty troops, with seven vehicles and four tanks."

A commando he was briefing extended all the fingers on his hand quickly.

"Five tanks, condition unclear but with at least some ammunition. Nothing that could easily hurt a mobile suit except at extremely close range."

"I'm worried about those automatic grenade launchers," another commando pointed out. "They've got two of them on two tracked armored personnel carriers on the corner of Fortieth and Settembre Prospect. If they've got shaped warheads, they could hurt the combat engineers…"

"Right, same for the recoilless rifles. But all of that's moot—that mobile armor still out there, and they haven't taken it out of the colony for God-knows-why. You saw what it did to the two Leo troops who were pinned down during Suivant Flight's escape."

"We're back," Eva's commando introduced them.

"How's it look?"

"Cameron's got them pinned down with sniper fire, but last I saw they were already going after his remote gun-position, so h shouldn't have any problem. Did the mobile armor move?"

"Not yet it seems."

Parsons raised a hand from behind his commando. "I'm sorry, I'm fuzzy on the whole battle plan—what exactly are we waiting for?"

"A sign from the 'Citadel' assault force, trust me, Lieutenant, we'll know it when we see it," the squad leader explained calmly before turning back to his sketches. "What about the ammo dump on Forty-Third and Settembre?"

"If it were up to me, I'd do something about the Reserve Army mobile suits rather than the ammo dump. We'll only get so many chances out in the open, we need to make them count."

"You're right. We've got enough thermal blankets?"

"Absolutely, but I wouldn't recommend bringing our guests along for the ride," the trooper responded, eyeing Eva and Parsons.

"We'll signal Cameron to make a grab for the remaining P.O.W.s—you can join him for that."

"Hold on a second," Parsons interrupted, still burying his arms into his coat as he shivered. "What exactly are you going to hurt mobile suits with? All of you inserted with a utility backpack worth of supplies each, how much plastic explosive do you have left?"

The squad leader gave Parsons a look walked to the opposite wall, grabbed a tarp hanging from the room's corner. Underneath it were four open wooden boxes marked with the insignia of the Alliance Army Continental American Military District, each containing a large metal tube a meter long attached to an irregular metal box.

"FGM-398 'Lance', courtesy of Colorado Instruments and North American Lockheed Martin. From Utah's arsenals to the Republic of Noventa to us."

"These are infantry-portable fire-and-forget anti-mobile missiles," the trooper next to Parsons elaborated.

"You don't seriously think one of these tiny things is going to hurt a mobile suit, do you?"

"The Utahans did—they certainly brought plenty of them with them," the squad leader responded aloofly.

"Is that _really _your combat strategy? Our enemies, professional _losers_, thought it was a good idea, and there might be something to it?"

"Don't worry, E.P., I don't think they're asking you to join them," Eva teased.

Further into the Military Quarter was another gaping, smoke-belching hole a few blocks wide at the end of the trail of ruin carved out by the escaping mobile armor. Adjacent to the hole, city buildings, particularly those of military design, were still standing, but the individual plates upon which they were built were visibly ajar, deviating by a meter or more, ripping up the pavement and sidewalks. Directly beneath the plates, the honeycomb of military-use tunnels, themselves above the maintenance access ways, had suffered similarly.

When Null, joined by two other technicians, was finally able to return to their military dry dock by prying open a warped bulkhead door, they surveyed the damage: devastating and total. It was immediately apparent that even if the opportunity presented itself, the dock's equipment was in no position to rearm or repair any mobile weapon that docked, particularly the one had just launched. The odor of burnt plastic and military explosive compound hung in the air.

Null slipped into what was left of the dock, followed by his associates. "Can we get the emergency lights back on?"

"I really don't think so, Chief," another worker said, pointing his flashlight in the opposite direction of the main doors—what had been the resource and equipment doorway into the colony interior were permanently open, crushed by a too-large mobile armor forcing its way through, and the only source of lighting they had now.

"And of course, the launch doors are still shut. At least that hasn't changed." Even the possibility of being sucked into vacuum during an explosive depressurization didn't leave him feeling particularly fortunate.

"Look at the walls," a technician said, pointing with his torch at the now-warped chamber walls. "If there was anyone in this hangar, the explosive force from breaching the passageway bulkheads would have liquefied them. Thank God for normal vehicle launch protocols."

Walking in the opposite direction of the massive breach, one technician tried to inspect the outside door. "What do you think went wrong, Chief?"

"I have no idea. I mean, I saw that there was a short circuit with the door controls here on the inside, before the breach, but I don't even…" he mumbled, pointing his flashlight around.

"Damage from the bombardment?"

"No, the outer doors are designed to shrug off capital ship-grade beam cannons, they all are," Null told him over his shoulder as he carefully stepped over to the main door, which sat perpendicular to the larger outside doors. "Besides, what failed were the inner doors, these ones right here. The mobile armor gets launched like a small warship, held down on rails, moved into the outer dock where the main doors open and it's dropped directly into space. Really, there's no way it could have been…"

Null stopped directly in front of the wall adjacent to the massive bulkheads, next to a control system housing. The panel door had been warped by the explosive pressure of the mobile armor's breach, torn off its hinges.

"Was this the access panel you saw? With the short circuit?" Null asked.

"Should be, Chief."

Taking out a screwdriver, he slowly reached into the system cavity and easily pried off the warped panel, exposing the damaged circuitry beneath it. Null reached into the cavity and wiped his left glove along the surfaces and pulled his arm out before aiming his flashlight at it.

"What is that, blood?"

"Not enough of it," he commented before sniffing his hand. "It's paint."

"Red paint, from Chrysanthemum's paint job," the worker said sensibly.

"Some most of gotten in there, while we were running around. It's nonconductive paint though, it couldn't have caused a short circuit."

"Well, there's more in there," he said before pointing his torch into the cavity.

Null stared into the access compartment. "Hey, keep your light steady. There's something reflective in there that caused the short circuit?"

"You think it's a fuse box or a transformer?"

"It's too big for that," Null replied, reaching into the compartment, getting a tight grip, and pulling it free. Kept under the light, they saw the reflective object was actually the hardened glass of a touch-screen display, scuffed and scratched but not actually visibly cracked, that in turn belonged to a paint-covered handheld computer trailing a thin cable.

Perplexed, Null slowly turned the small tablet computer over to see that the back of its plastic case had been yanked off, exposing the internal circuit board and microchips. Someone had then hastily grafted wire around the reader's lithium power cell, with one end on the power conduits and the other in the door system's own wiring. One of the small chips had been pried off the main board, likely the computer's small power regulated, and several circuits and connections were melted from heat. A few others, more deliberately, had been warped by a small tool, modifying them into new circuit pathways.

"It's a digital reader," Null mumbled finally, before turning it to the side. Still visible, in the same position as the spine of a paper book, was a small sticker with printed writing on it. "This is _Major Khattāb's _digital reader."

The other technician looked up at him, dumbfounded.

"He gave this to Walker, to give him something to do. And I gave him the power cable. He used them to blow out the control circuits for the door's hydraulic actuator—so nothing worked. Not the switch, not the backup motor, nothing."

A series of muffled thuds echoed in the dock, in direction from the gaping hole far behind them.

"We'd better get to our evac zones, Chief, we're not doing anything in this disaster zone."

Null nodded in agreement, tossing the reader and its wiring into the open dock, where it vanished into the darkness with a high-pitched _clang. _

"Hey! This way sirs, the lift's out but the emergency stairway's clear," a soldier waving a flashlight shouted by the adjacent offices. When they reached the offices, they found a dozen other soldiers grabbing anything that seemed useful, including small arms from a security locker, before immediately running up the stairway. By the time Null reached street level through the emergency exit, he was completely out of breath—unlike the three Reserve Army soldiers who followed behind him on their way to a rendezvous point. He fell to his knees and gasped, clutching his chest, while the three men forced their way past him.

"Six…flights…of stairs. When the hell did it get so cold out here?" he asked, shivering.

Two more troops hurriedly shoved past him, these two carrying something in their arms—when he looked up, he spotted a squad machinegun and a box of ammunition for it, at least a dozen kilograms together. "Oh, come on!"

"Hurry up with that machinegun!" a familiar voice shouted.

Null rose to his feet and looked through the crowd of soldiers to see a transport helicopter and its crew, now joined by a multitude of fighting men. After a few seconds he realized they weren't swarming the helicopter as if evacuating, but instead loading it with box after box of ammunition.

"Are those…are those door guns? Lieutenant Scott, are you completely insane?" he asked, still shivering.

Scott and Niazi were sitting at their seats in their helicopter as troops bolted a machinegun to a pylon by either bay door, then moving the boxes around within the passenger compartment. By the time Null caught up with them, they'd already loaded a few thousand rounds of belt ammunition on board.

"Scott, answer my question: are those machine guns?"

"No, we're stealing the Military Quarter's plumbing. What the hell do they look like, Null?" Scott asked, resting his arm on his door's windowsill, his breath forming a cloud in front of him.

"You can't be thinking about going out in the middle of this! When OZ comes back they'll blast you out of the sky, _especially _if they see you're armed! What do you think you're gonna' do with two door-mounted machineguns?"

"Niazi?" Scott asked, looking back.

"Communications are out everywhere, and snow's jammed up the roads. We've been drafted for scout duties."

"_Scout duties? With what?_"

"We've got a high-powered observation camera mounted on the tail," Niazi elaborated.

Null grabbed Scott by his flight suit's collar. "Listen to me—they are going to come in here with mobile suits armed with beam rifles and cannons, the kind of beam rifle that can pierce both armored facings of a mobile suit and the pilot _and_ fusion reactor between them, and the kind of beam cannon that can punch a hole straight through a destroyer. What do you think they'll do when they do when they see an unarmored utility helicopter with two door-mounted machineguns?"

Still in Null's grasp, Scott turned his head to see a Reserve Army solider meticulously putting the end of a belt of metallic split-link ammunition into his machinegun's feed, closing the feed cover over it and pulling the charging handle before releasing it with a loud _snap_. The soldier than looked him the eye and shrugged, indicating he was no more confident in the situation than he was, before leaping out of the cabin and joining his comrades.

Scott looked back at Null and raised his reflective sunglasses over his forehead. "Well, they just spent the last hour loading all this ammo and supplies."

"_Leave them_," Null hissed.

Scott seemed to ponder this a bit further. "I guess we really ought to get out of these boys' way and to a shelter somewhere."

Niazi was already undoing his seat restraints and had taken off his helmet, and skipped out of his position just as Scott conceded Null's point. Sighing in relief, Null grabbed a coat from the passenger cabin and pulled it on. "Either of you remember your evac zones?"

The two pilots exchanged looks that indicated they clearly didn't. "Come on, you can come with me and the other dry dock staff, you two stay out here and you're gonna' get killed by either OZ or the Reserve Army!"

Niazi had disembarked first, and turned behind him to see a Noventan soldier, still a teenager, holding an anti-tank rocket launcher while an equally-young comrade gingerly loaded a shaped warhead into it. Neither man inspired much confidence, especially when the loader released the rocket and the gunner almost tripped over with the added weight.

"We really need to get the hell out of here," Scott remarked.

"It's not as though we have an aerial transit vehicle or anything like that," Niazi muttered sarcastically while Scott shot him a look.

"We need to move on foot, _out _of the Military Quarter," Null warned. "Listen, if we…"

He was cut-off by a skull-rattling explosion, a deafening blast strong enough to feel like it knocked the air out of his lungs. Three blocks away, a city garden and an adjacent sports field used by military personnel split in half and sank into a cloud of dust before three Taurus mobile suits in fighter mode shot out, leaving long trails behind them.

Safely inside the cockpit of the behemoth EA-01MA1, Captain Soletta barely felt the blast that had crippled the soldiers and officers on the ground. Instead, her attention was taken away from checking her mobile armor diagnostics display by the familiar tone of alarms, followed by bright flashes around her: the antiaircraft batteries that dotted the top of every tall building in the Military Quarter coming to life.

"_Mark two, no, three hostiles!_"

"_Where are they?_"

"I see them," Soletta growled before switching her three monitor displays between Chrysanthemum's numerous cameras—the mobile suits had remained at altitude, but put distance between themselves and the Military Quarters, and were hovering over the business district. Still in air-to-air automatic mode, she targeted all six and began firing with both missile pods and the double-beam cannon. They scattered, as she expected them: their real mission was to cover the next three Taurus troops who entered through the same breach. The Reserve Army on the ground, less unawares, began firing at them with their towed artillery, guided missiles and everything else they had available.

Soletta felt her mobile armor shudder from the strikes of any beam fire from the Taurus rifles, enough to kill a mobile suit but insufficient to puncture her outermost armor. "Good thing about this armor, seeing how I can't move much." She'd seen what her mobile armor had done after emerging from the colony underground, then when it moved through the too-narrow streets and alleyways—she'd caused nearly the damage OZ had with their breaches. There were other concerns too.

"My thrusters weren't supposed to be used in anything but microgravity," she reminded herself. Her mobile armor's vernier engines, which were its primary means of propulsion, were intended to move Chrysanthemum in and out of fleets in Outer Space, not drag it about the inside of a colony, where they'd vaporize concrete and anything else beneath the mobile armor. "These ground effect engines were supposed to just be used at launch and landing, not in combat."

She'd used those thermonuclear jet engines to propel herself across the urban landscape and turn Chrysanthemum as necessary—how much longer would they last? For that matter, how much longer would anything last? It was practically a miracle that Chrysanthemum had even launched without the issues that had plagued it just a few days ago, much less been operated into combat.

She resisted the urge to bring up the diagnostic screen again on an MFD, instead focusing on tracking supermaneuverable enemy mobile suits while the Reserve Army filled the sky with antiaircraft fire. Old-fashion antiaircraft artillery—mostly 57 mm and 75 mm high explosive—was abundant, surface-to-air missiles less so, as the former could be used to fire upon mobile suits on the ground. Not that it mattered much: the reactive armor on all of OZ's mobile suits was completely immune to 57 mm ammunition and most 75 mm shells.

They were just flashing lights to her. After that period of seething rage, Soletta's rational military mind, by her own standards anyway, had taken over. Chrysanthemum was an order of magnitude more complex than a mobile suit, with its rushed completion on top of everything else that had gone wrong.

_Breaching the surface—probably some damage to the maneuvering surfaces, canards, not that I was using them anyway. _

_Vernier thrusters still running hot, even with the snow, the engine jetwash against the street level is cooking the whole powerplant. How much fuel left for maneuvering? _

_No, fuel's not the issue. The fusion reactor's always had problems, just like Null said. I've got a hard redline to avoid a shutdown, but even then, I can't operate indefinitely, and there's no hangar left for repairs. _

_Thermonuclear hover engines are badly overtaxed, they were never intended to work in normal gravity for more than a few minutes. No one ever thought a mobile armor needed legs, after all. _

_Ordnance? Plenty, though vibration damage is going to reduce effectiveness, none of it was designed for surface use. Nothing I can do about that._

_What about the rest of the mobile armor? Diagnostics seemed normal, nothing broke off even during the breach, even the wings held up well. Armor's doing its job, though a Taurus beam cannon could penetrate. How's it holding together structurally so well? You think it would be falling to pieces along with everything else._

_How much of the city have I already destroyed? _

_More than OZ had any intention to, obviously. _That hurt her—she'd grown up in Old Town. To see D-120 blockaded and invaded was one thing, the neighborhoods of her childhood burning down another. She took deep breaths, trying to keep herself calm, then began tapping the buttons on her right-side MFD.

"_First Line to Reserve Army MS Troops—we don't have enough firepower to engage these mobile suits, and the Gundams still haven't appeared. If we don't get any support now, we're…_"

"This is Chrysanthemum to all units—Reserve Army MS Troops, move to support armour and the First Line positions," she shouted, cutting him off, while programming a timer in her flight computer. A new window overlay appeared in the center top of her forward display: **6:00:00**. Six minutes, she thought, after turning from Chrysanthemum from a largely-immobile armored fortress to a high-mobility surface weapon, before it was figuratively dead in the water. Six minutes of full power—throttling those systems back and forth would stress them even more at this point, she thought—before either the thermonuclear turbines were damaged beyond repair, or the fusion reactor failed, or something else crippled it.

Six minutes. It wasn't very much. _If you think how it was completed, it's a miracle it can fight at all. _She remembered Chief Null and his other staff, cheerfully pulling all-nighters to finish it in time, with Oswald Walker forced to accompany them.

_Walker. _Just before Chrysanthemum's costly launch, she'd expected a different kind of catastrophe: that the mobile armor might explode in the dock, killing her and everyone else in it, the victim of sabotage. It was the most obvious scenario and the one the most precaution had been taken against. No such thing had happened—instead, everything around the mobile armor had failed, most notably the hangar doors.

_Remember what Major Khattāb would say: learn or die. Learn that you can't plan for an entire war—just plan for the next six minutes._

**V**

Unobstructed and unbound, the field of defensive fire outside D-120 had not diminished as OZ's own troops gradually trickled into the colony's habitable zone. In fact it seemed to have grown more intense—the remaining ships of the defensive fleet more willing to fire in close proximity of the colony itself, as the likelihood of friendly fire diminished with the number of friendly ships.

It was in the shadow of D-120's agricultural pods when Walker saw it: a half-dozen Space Leo troops moving in a tight group, including two trailing fire. They were heading for an increasingly battered-looking _Los Angeles-_class, hull code CL-79, not to dock in its nonexistent hangars, but to better their own chances of fleeing. The leading OZ-06SMSK, and the flight around it, carried an insignia: the 101st Intelligence Squadron. He'd seen it before. Then he remembered Alexander C. Fielding, and before thinking, did something rash.

"Misfit Actual to Misfit 1-2, cover me! All other call signs, take a high-approach attack vector!" An accelerative boost forward followed by a sharp dive, and he was below the flight leader. He put his reticle over the Leo's beam rifle, and fired—his aim was a fraction of a degree off, and instead took off the Leo's entire manipulator.

The Leo immediately responded, taking a hard turn—the Taurus matched, then fired a shot into the portside vernier thruster. The older machine spun, this time out of control, drifting from the rest of its unit as it was steered into Misfit Flight's firing area.

While the other troops took fire, Misfit Actual burned several seconds of propellant that would have sent it past the crippled Leo if it weren't for another, much shorter burn that brought the two machines together. The Taurus barreled into the Leo and with its empty starboard manipulator, grabbed the shoulder ball joint, and smashed its port leg into the main chassis.

Walker took a moment to blink and consider what he'd done, and how much he'd regret such an unplanned, uncalculated and careless act even if his mobile suit was out of fire and relatively safe. As the rest of enemy flight was torn to pieces he decided to carry on with his emotion-fueled plan, checking the enemy machine's mooneye—it was still intact—and switched to an unencrypted frequency.

"_Enemy mobile suit pilot, your machine is disabled and you can still see the beam rifle aimed at your cockpit compartment. Open your hatch or I'll fire in five, four, three…_"

Walker stopped when the cockpit hatch popped open on flash-emitting emergency charges. Instead of ejecting its pilot though, the compartment slid open and the pilot in his normal suit limply climbed out.

"_Misfit 1-2 and 1-3, form a perimeter. Other call signs, take the enemy exit vector," _Walker ordered while taking the tactical shotgun stowed in the left side of his cockpit and pulling the hatch release. The mobile suit appeared in front of him while he flipped the small action switch from 'safety' to 'auto'. Still marveling at his own foolishness, he aimed the shotgun downwards at the pilot a mere ten meters away and gestured with the barrel. The pilot looked at his sidearm, opened the holster and tossed it away the pistol into space. Still staring down the sights, he pushed himself off the open hatch to the other pilot and took him by the seals between suit and helmet, using his right hand to keep the shotgun awkwardly but threatening jammed into his side, then looked up into his helmet.

"_Captain Fielding_," he said finally, looking through the visor. The stupid gamble aside, he did feel substantially less foolish.

"_Flight Lieutenant Walker_," Fielding responded, his hands raised and palms open. Through his helmet, Walker could make out his face: a little less clean-shaven, a little more tired-looking. "_Would you believe what a small battlefield this is_?"

Just barely in his field of vision, Walker saw the remainder of Fielding's unit either on fire or, in the case of two lucky survivors, hastily retreating to the other side of the torus. "_They're running for it, Flight Lieutenant. Looks like CL-79 routed too._"

"_I think we're overdue for that second discussion._"

While the two mobile suits drifted together very slowly towards the nearby agricultural pod, Flight Officer Kaneshiro spotted the two pilots between. This sort of thing wasn't that out of the ordinary on Earth, actually, even if it was dangerous back home or up here in space. _Just a ranking field officer getting out of his machine to do some on-foot recon. Either that, or you order a subordinate to do the footwork for you._

She smiled somberly. _I guess he hasn't lost his touch?_

"_An impromptu interrogation. Who would have thought our F/L would be the go-to prisoner intelligence officer?_" Misfit 1-3 asked over the channel.

"I seriously doubt that, Ajay."

"_Than what do you call it_?"

She zoomed in on the insignia the Leo's shoulder armor: an Alliance Intelligence Squadron, one of the more valuable remnants of the previous regime. "Maybe he's out for blood."

"_I don't think you believe that for a second, Kanna_," he responded incredulously.

She hoped the other flight officer was right. "That's what I would do."

"_Then we know_ _that can't be it_," he countered.

Floating before him, Fielding gave Walker a look—an intense, even threatening look considering he had a 12 gauge breaching shell-firing shotgun pressed against his stomach while standing just outside a mostly-inoperative mobile suit—that seemed fully at-odds with the prim image Walker still associated with him.

"_Let me put it in less political speech for you: Walker, you don't know anything. You didn't know anything. What you know is a bunch of engineering designs that won't see a factory floor for a year, which is great news for a solvent government's armed forces, though not so much for armed cabal that's about to lose a war. You knew nothing of immediate tactical significance, and that's one of the few things Helena Arroway and I agree on, not that my opinion really matters._"

After looking at the nearest manned Taurus mobile suit, he leaned forward, gently tapping his helmet against Walker's. "_Three colonies can't fight the rest of Earth Sphere. Not with Gundams, not with a bunch of young fanatics in trim, well-kept uniforms. You were valuable. But not for anything you know. Well, except maybe mobile suit engineering._"

"_Because you could barter with me._"

"_And in case Carmen Soletta's sheer force of will really does change things, which….I suppose is true._"

"_I suppose either of you didn't know a way to kill several hundred Taurus Troops just by the power of thought._"

Fielding gave a mean-spirited chuckle. "_I knew you'd understand that eventually. You're actually a fairly bright young man. Also, as your background is in military engineering and not intelligence, you may not be familiar with the hundreds of man-hours a proper, legal intelligence interview takes._" He looked down at the shotgun, then around himself. "_Also, blasting me with that shotgun won't change your worth to what's left of my branch of the military, which is decreasing by the minute._"

"_I sort of pieced that together, Captain_."

"_Have you figured out why the Bartons would be so anxious to make sure we didn't waste our time? Because I'm always wary of the helpful, even after I take their help._"

Walker stared at Fielding, floating there, and considered putting his trigger finger behind the trigger guard and filling Fielding's normal suit with heavy-duty breaching rounds, slug-shot just frangible to warp an armored hatch off its hinges. As Liu told him, the 'Tesar' ammunition was designed not to endanger the crew behind a vehicle hatch, but was easily lethal if fired directly at a human—it would have turned the insides of the normal suit into raw hamburger.

"_Misfit Actual to Misfit 1-3—radio the _Europa _to send out a combat shuttle to pick up one enemy combatant, an officer, now prisoner._"

"_Do you need my service number as well?_" Fielding asked sarcastically.

"_Spare me, I'm still new to this,_" he replied, aiming his shotgun with one hand at Fielding's head but keeping trigger discipline. "_And thank you for your cooperation, it was time well-spent_."

**VII**

"_Well, so much for getting into the colony being the hard part!_"

"_Shut up, Liu!_" The order came from the ranking officer of the 7th Division's Combat Engineers Battalion, as their mobile suits encountered fire from the Reserve Army. As anticipated, the Combat Engineers were fighting the same type of mobile suit, the Leo, but of older make. What they hadn't expected was the sheer variety of arms the enemy was using, and the amount of ground support they still hand.

At the end of the boulevard, one command-variant mobile suit, joined by an immobile Tragos converted into a stationary piece of artillery. For its valiant last stand, the mobile suit was armed with its two shoulder-mounted beam cannons and, their surprise, the 90 mm chain rifle from an OZ-07AMS 'Aries', which it was using to great effect.

Inside his cockpit, Pilot Officer Liu felt a lucky 90 mm go through the building his machine was taking cover behind and strike his Space Leo in the booster pack. An annoying alarm tone went off—fuel was leaking. "Well, there go my verniers. Like I was going back into space anyway," he said to himself, killing the alarm when he moved his machine forward, entered in the emergency code, and jettisoned his booster pack. The heavy component fell to the ground uselessly behind him, destroying what was left of the building's front façade.

"_Heads up, that ninety millimeter's got better penetration than the one-oh-five!_"

"Thanks, like I had to be an Aries pilot to have known that," Liu shouted back angrily. "Spade 3-3, where's the missile launcher?"

"_I'm on it!_" Sure enough, further upspin from boulevard, a missile rose from between two buildings, turned abruptly, and descended on the enemy position. When the cloud of debris settled, the half-Tragos lurched forward on its tracked chassis, fired another salvo uselessly into the street ahead of it, then toppled forward in a fireball. The Leo was gone, having vanished in the smoke.

Furthest forward, it fell upon Liu to take a look—his mobile suit rose just above the building tops, only to be fired at by four MBT_s_ that had been hiding far downspin, on a highway overpass. The tanks kept firing, each one letting loose a 120 mm APFSDS kinetic penetrator every seven seconds, the length of time it took for its mechanically autoloader to cycle.

"Fuck!" went Liu, as his machine fell onto its back and the cockpit went dark. The tanks kept firing even after Spade 2-3 dragged him back into cover.

"_Spade 2-1's hit and smoking! Liu, are you all right?_"

"Well, except for my cockpit going completely dark and the alarm ringing inside my brain, I'm fine," Liu mumbled weakly. Now he had trouble hearing the actual alarm tones.

_Where the hell is our air support?_" Spade Actual asked.

"_Goddamn it, this is obvious! They're using that red monster to keep the Taurus troops on the ground, so we can't just call out defensive squads for them to vaporize! Clever bastards!_" another combat engineer explained.

With his foot, Liu kept kicking at the forward display until the blackness was replaced with intermittent digitally snow and video from his reserve camera. "I don't think it's that clever sir, I think we might just be stupid enough to fall for it."

"_Anyone got the over-under on the Noventans sending up an actual Aries_?" someone asked, Liu hoped as a joke.

"_Spade 3-4 here, I'm getting small airborne hostiles—looks like they're small attack helicopters, it's hard to see with all this weather._"

"_Acknowledged, Spade 3-4, swat them out of the sky but watch your ammo._"

A new voice cut him off. "_To all combat engineers and gambling addicts, clear the road!_"

"_Heads up!_"

Liu's reserve camera managed to capture the blinding wave of charged particles that burned its way down the avenue, turning the tanks and anything else in its way into exploding lumps of molten steel before turning the large church at the end of the avenue into a glassy, glowing ruin. At the opposite end, Suivant 1 stood, a black obelisk surrounded by smoking ruins and a thick cloud of water vapor which was already beginning to rain back down, its massive beam cannon still glowing at the emitter.

"_Area clear,_" Lieutenant Colonel Soris Armonia announced, sounding a little too proud of the destruction she'd wrought.

"_Only for now, Suivant 1_," Suivant 2 warned in a no-nonsense tone, as its defensor units propelled themselves through the ruins and into a rough field in front of the combat engineers. "_Hostile movement, downspin, three hundred meters_."

As soon the charged particles had subsided, Reserve Army mobile suits had pressed their counterattack once more. A street that intersected the broad avenue saw two Leo mobile suits moving up in a line—about three blocks from the intersection, the rearmost Leo toppled forward, short of its leader, when a guided missile struck it in the back of its left knee servomotor.

"Go go go!"

While the rearmost Leo recovered and its companion turned, three two-man CAST teams—two behind abandoned cars on the left side of the street and one on the right—emerged from their snow-covered thermal blankets, each armed with a FGM-398 guided missile launcher. The other two fired their own missiles at the recovering Leo before discarded the launchers and vanishing into the buildings lining either side of the street, though not fast enough to keep the leading mobile suit from raking them with autocannon fire.

Reserve Army infantry were on the scene in short order, but the CAST teams were already gone, leaving them shoot at the local storefronts or anything else that looked like an enemy commandos. The platoon leader, at the rear, looked up from his assault rifle and looked at the sign marking the nearby intersection.

"Wait a minute...hold your fire! I said hold your fire!" he barked until his order was followed. "You see that sign?"

The nearest infantryman just shrugged; a month earlier, he'd never traveled to Outer Space, much less stepped foot in a space colony. "We're six blocks further from Quirnal! They're not heading to the palace, they surrounding us here! Someone, get a radio up and..."

He was cut off by the sounds of incoming rotors growing louder. A few seconds later, a damaged attack helicopter crashed into nearby department store, its blades flung in all directions, before the main fuselage collapsed on the platoon, engulfing them in flames.

As the commandos precariously made their way through the ruined buildings, one turned back in the direction of the muffle explosion, while another looked through a missing wall and onto a parallel street.

"Sergeant, do you see this?"

The CAST senior sergeant watched one of three Taurus fighters briefly break off from its flight and assume mobile suit mode, aiming its beam weapon at a hardened bunker on the edge of the Military Quarter. Almost immediately, it was confronted by a barrage of antiaircraft artillery and a pair of surface-to-air missiles. Even as further deployed countermeasures, its right side was smashed by fire and the mobile suit went crashing down to the streets below.

"God_damn_, there's a lot of antiaircraft fire."

"No, not that sir, look upspin, about ninety meters."

Just a few blocks away, a two-mobile suit team was assembled behind a small military motor pool, three jeeps, an auxiliary power generator on a large truck, and a tracked vehicle. The tracked vehicle served as the support tripod for a long-barreled gun that one of the mobile suits operated, while the other stood guard with its shield and beam rifle.

"What the hell is that?" The sergeant got his answer immediately as the long-barreled weapon fired a red laser beam, visible against the snow and dust, across three occupied city blocks. The beam cut its way cleanly through the ruined buildings and even passed through the magnetic defensive field put up by Mercurius, cutting through some of the armor on the left shoulder ball-joint before Flight Officer Armonia was able to take cover.

"_Suivant 2 alert, solid state laser!_"

"_I see it. Spade 3-1 and Spade 3-2, move downspin along Consulta Prospect and trap them._"

"_Yes ma'am!_" The CAST could already see the laser weapon position taking suppressing fire from the other troops.

"_Spade 3-3, put two missiles onto that hardened bunker at the end of Consulta and Sixtieth._"

"_Affirmative, Suivant 2, what about you?_"

In Mercurius' cockpit, Luna Armonia gave an annoyed sigh, watching multiple points across the city light up on her HUD. "_Suivant 1 is already on the move, I need to cover her the best I can._"

Forced to remain at street level in the Military Quarter, Suivant 1 was now darting in and out of cover with its hip-mounted vernier thrusters, putting low-power shots with its beam rifle into whatever defending Leo troops it encountered, just enough to liquidate their cockpit and reactor compartments, but not enough to easily give away its position.

Inside Chrysanthemum, Soletta watched another Taurus mobile suit loose its right manipulator before fleeing downspin away from the Military Quarter, as points marked where her own friendlies were being shot down.

_There's only one way I'm going to find out what that Gundam's beam cannon output is. _"Is anyone tracking the black Gundam?"

"_Headquarters to Chrysanthemum—negative, ma'am. Its radar cross-section looks to be about the size of a dinner plate as far as we can tell, Pyotr Ufimtsev would be proud. As long as it stays below roofline, it's not going to show up on our sensors._"

"Useless as usual," she snapped at them. "Does anyone have visual confirmation?"

"_Chrysanthemum, this is Centurion Actual—I'm at Settembre Prospect Bunker. I've already lost three units in my squadron, but I did see a black mobile suit that wasn't a Taurus down the avenue._"

_The end of Settembre Prospect, that's less than two hundred meters from Quirinal! _"How far out?"

"_Three hundred, three fifty? It's impossible to say, anyone who sees that Gundam gets killed before they can report it. That might include me!_" the Leo pilot warned gravely.

Soletta struck her left flight stick with her fist—she'd found a way to deny OZ air superiority, even if only for a matter of minutes, and they'd gotten around it. Even with Chrysanthemum on the field, their firepower superiority was unmatchable. _Damn it, what would Khattāb do? You'd be able to fight back, Umar, I know you would…_

"Chrysanthemum to all callsigns—any units behind the last defensive line, fall back to the vector I'm sending. We need to funnel both of the Gundams into a firing line before OZ's reinforcements show up!"

"_Whose firing line, ma'am?_"

"Anyone, tanks, towed guns, anti-mobile infantry! We need to shoot that Gundam down, this'll be our only chance! Laser teams, respond!"

"_This is Tirarii Actual, Chrysanthemum. We read you._"

She stared at the city map on one of her MFDs. "First break in OZ's fire, I need you to relocate to these coordinates," she said, entering numbers to be sent over datalink. "How long does it take you to set up?"

"_About three minutes after we got on site, as long as each team's intact_."

"The Reserve Army'll cover you," Soletta promised.

"_Acknowledged, Captain. Triarii Actual to Triarii 2-1, 3-1, prepare to move and…_" The transmissions was abruptly cut off. Several blocks away, at a parking lot closer to OZ's breach, the three mobile suits adjacent to Triarii 1-1 watched as their squadron leader was cut apart by a flash of white appearing from a nearby highway overpass. The towed gun crews along the overpass had a better, unobstructed view of Mercurius diving at the Leo with the beam saber mounted in its small crash shield, slicing it from the right shoulder to the left hip. Their view of the Gundam's rear lasted until the bright flash that proceeded Vayeate's beam cannon bathing the overpass in charged particle wave, turning towed guns, military crews and the highway alike into molten metal and baked, scorched concrete.

One by one, Suivant 2 dispensed with the remaining mobile suits with its beam saber, and the remaining troops at the position fled. Those vehicles working in the cold fled down the highway, while others were left abandoned as their owners fled on foot.

"_What's the plan now, Soris?_"

In Vayeate's cockpit, Soris glanced at the status readout of her lone weapon. "Have the Taurus troops go onto the ground with the engineers, hunt-and-kill the remaining laser teams. We'll keep the rest of the troops in route, then unleash the rest of Seventh Division, along with First Recon."

"_So you're _not _going to run up to the mobile armor and challenge it to glorious single combat for the fate of the Republic?_"

Soris blinked before laughing loudly and abundantly. "Don't count me out just yet, little sister. But if a few of my colleagues aren't misleading me, I may be too important to die needlessly. For now anyway," she replied, grinning uncontrollably.

**VIII**

In near the geographical center of Quirinal stood the _Piazza della Repubblica_, originally the _Piazza dell'Alleanza _before the declaration of the Noventan Republic. In the center of that, surrounded on all sides by lines of sandbags and a half-dozen mobile suits was the Presidential Palace, formerly the L1-D-120 Governor-General's Residence.

Deep underneath the long, rectangular renaissance baroque-style building was a complex of underground structures, wedged in between the sublevels almost exactly halfway between the armored torus outside shell and the interior walls and urban levels. The Presidential Bunker, as it was known, had been built from an earlier emergency complex dating back to After Colony 188, after the first wave of violent colonial revolts.

President Gwinter Septim III had a deep dislike for the Presidential Bunker, both practically as a residence but also what it represented. The palace grounds had been evacuated of civilians a half-hour before the general evacuation order went out through all of D-120, but he'd elected to stay in his official residence, still called the Governor's Office, on the top floor overlooking the plaza. From the balcony, he could see multiple plumes of smoke rising from the nearby Military Quarter and Old Town.

"First time I've ever seen it snow," he observed to a nearby noncommissioned officer of the Presidential Guard, a tall soldier decked out in a gleaming Alliance uniform and polished helmet. "Have you?"

"I can't say that I have, Your Excellency."

Septim III breathed in the cold, crisp air and brushed some of the snow off the broad shoulders of his uniform. "What unit do those mobile suits belong to?"

"The First Central Division of the Republican Guard, Mr. President, sir."

"Seems like a waste for them to be here, they're no match for OZ's high-speed models, and if the enemy combat engineers reach the plaza, they couldn't stop them from firing on the building."

The NCO clenched his jaw before answering. "I believe that's why it's been recommended Your Excellency evacuate this building, sir."

"Of course, of course. Seems like a waste all the same," Septim III mumbled before crossing his arms. "Let's go do something about that."

There was no direct passageway from the palace, built in the earliest day of the colony itself, and the Presidential Bunker—to go from to the other, it was necessary to exit to the palace courtyard and into an armored stairway that led into the forward bunker. The path there as lined by an increasing density of Republican Guard, their uniforms inversely spotless and immaculate to their numbers. Towards the end, many carried loaded assault rifles, not the most practical weapon in the close quarters of the bunker—not that Septim III expected there to be fighting.

"I'd like to see my grandfather please," he asked the saluting soldiers, who took him into the rear of the complex. Through narrow, dreary-looking grey corridors filled mostly by errant officers and emergency services personnel, he found Gwinter Septim I in one of the sitting rooms, crowding around a small table surrounded by flag officers, the same generals who sat in on the Colony Congress.

"The majority of the Seventh Division's Taurus mobile suits are still outside the colony. If we can keep them from invading successfully, and maintain our air defense network long enough for a breakthrough in the Military Quarter…" one general explained before seeing his president enter. He snapped to his feet, as did the other officers.

"Your Excellency!"

"Mr. President!"

"I'm sorry to interrupt you gentlemen, but do you mind if I had a moment with my grandfather in private?"

Septim I, still hunched over the flag and space charts, didn't move as the generals filed out in an orderly manner, leaving the two of them alone. His posture relaxing, Septim III took a chair from the wall, dragged it over to the table, and sat down.

"Well?"

"Those new mobile suits OZ has been using, the Taurii, they're excellent. Second-generation mobile suits. When this is all over, we'll really need to see about obtaining as many squadrons as they allow us for the rebuilt D-120 security force," Septim I said, half-mumbling while tapping a finger against the chart.

Septim III held back a chuckle. "I don't think they'll allow it, they've been reluctant to give the Taurus mobile suits to even the most trusted Colonial militias. Something about concerns over the new mobility software."

Septim I grunted in agreement, before pushing some of the charts away. "There's at least one good thing about this, at least we'll finally be able to rebuild Old Town. All those bleeding hearts will finally have to stop about 'historic preservation' and everything else."

The younger Septim said nothing, leaning back in his chair, resting his arms comfortably on the table and his knee.

"Those generals of yours are still optimistic. They think if the Arroway Fleet can inflict enough losses on OZ's own, reach a turning point, OZ will have no choice but to regroup back to the Ventei Line. The invasion force could be routed," Septim III pointed out. He looked up at his grandson and gave the closest thing he would to a smile.

"I can imagine if your father was here, how he'd react to this," he muttered. "_Arroway, Arroway, Arroway_," he snarled, imitating the late General of Space Force's distinctive tone while striking his fist against the table dramatically.

"That does sound like him," Septim III remarked, holding back a dour chuckle.

"Where were you?"

"Above ground."

"Enjoying the view?"

"It's quite a show, even from here," he explained, the chair creaking under his large body. "Do you still think OZ won't dissolve the republic?"

"The U.N.O. won't demand it."

"But OZ?"

"That may depend on how 'Citadel' plays out. We may have to hit a balance—impress Mr. Khushrenada by fighting hard enough, but not so hard that it alienates the officers counting their dead. And we'll also need to think about the occupation, not time so much as conditions…"

Septim I looked up. "Are you listening to me?"

Septim III was staring into the face of a long-dead Field Marshal of the Alliance hanging from the wall. "I was thinking."

"Of what?"

"Millardo Peacecraft."

Septim I snorted. "Don't blame him. We knew the second things got dicey he'd be off to the next colony cluster to proselytize. He can't do that if he's busy actually fighting a war." He sighed softly. "Not that he could fight this war for us."

"He could have made a difference."

"Like all those boys and girls you have sitting in their _technological terrors_? I suppose it could have, yes," Septim I admitted shortly. "Or if we hadn't lost control of the Outer Space Strategic Missile Branch."

"Grandfather…"

"I know, I know, nuclear weapons wouldn't win this fight, they'd just kill everyone. OZ seems to be putting them to good use, but then again, they designed the things." The elderly man rose to his feet and plodded towards the door. "You should be briefing the troops, you were always good at that."

Septim III was about to point out what little good he thought that would do, but relented. "Perhaps you're right."

"What about that monstrosity Arroway had brought up from Earth—Camellia, was it?"

"Chrysanthemum. Like the Japanese throne," he corrected him.

"According to generals, it's actually giving OZ a run for its money in here. If only it'd actually launched properly, we might not have needed Arroway's ships," he said, scowling.

"We would have needed them, Grandfather. It's just one mobile armor."

"Shame about the hole it tore up in the city though. But it'll be easier to rebuild once everything's cleared out," he reminded him, before gesturing at the door.

Septim III looked at his grandfather, than at his hand, before nodded slightly. "I'll leave you to it," he muttered, before opening the door and being greeted by a saluting soldier.

"_Dio salvi l'Alleanza_," he heard his grandfather remark offhandedly before waddling back to his charts before he closed the door behind him.

**IX**

Aboard the EASFS _Africana_, when Arroway's XO saw his commander return from another skirmish, still clad in her crimson normal suit, he recognized the expression of utter contentment on her face.

"You look like you're enjoying yourself ma'am,"

"Oh, I am, I won't deny it," she said with a haughty laugh. "It could get old fast, but for now…what's the report from recon?"

Striding alongside the admiral, he showed on a geographic map on a thin tablet. "Our scout squadron shows a mobile suit force moving to engage—minimal naval support. Going by their trajectory, they launched from Luna before and while we left D-1307."

A text box appeared under the XO's hand after he pressed for a moment. "Second Aerospace Division," Arroway noted.

"According to what we know about OZ's Order of Battle, they're not armed with nukes—just conventional arms. The problem is if we break past them," he said, moving his arms further back, all the way across Area-D. "That brings us right to Seventh Division. _Barge _will be on the far side of Earth when we get there, but I'm worried about Seventh Division's nukes."

"What kind of firepower could we expect?"

"Dial-a-yield thermonuclear weapons, up to a hundred kilotons most likely—their effect on hardened defense space stations suggests the same. One direct hit could sink the _Africana_, and that just takes one mobile suit getting through our picket line and anti-air. Same goes for our battlecruisers."

"Who's in charge of the intercepting force, and then Seventh Division?"

"Should be the same man for both: Marcus North."

Arroway cocked her head and smiled thinly. "Lieutenant Colonel North."

An officer came running before stopping and tapping his heels together. "Defense Minister, ma'am, we've just started engaging OZ's scout spacecraft. The main force is following behind them."

"You're not going out again, are you?" he asked her.

Arroway gave a sigh before brushing some of her long hair out of her eyes. "No, better leave it to the professionals. Maybe if I had a Gundam," she said wistfully. "I really need to obtain one myself."

The XO snorted and gestured at the officer, who nodded and took off down the corridor. When he turned back to Arroway, she was shaking her head, one hand digging through her black hair.

"Problem, Commander?"

"No, I just…have some ringing in my ears. Mobile suits are a young woman's game."

"That seems to be how OZ and the C.L.O. see it, ma'am."

Arroway gave a snort before an alert tone sounded. "_Defense Minister Arroway, please report to the bridge as soon as possible, ma'am. We've just be hailed by the opposing force's commanding officer._"

Inside D-120, six Taurii from the First Recon Battalion passed through the colony's antiaircraft defenses before entering through another breach. The two flights, led by Squadron Commander Ogasawara, tried a different approaching, going through the inner rather than outer wall of the torus and making their way in mobile suit mode towards the artificial sky via an open maintenance access way. Upon reaching the end of the wide tunnel, they breached through the armored superstructure with a shot from their beam cannon.

"_And that's it,_" Damocles Actual announced before its pilot discarded her beam cannon. "_Power cells are dead._"

"_Well, it's not like there was anything inside there that you'd need a beam cannon for, right?_" Damocles 1-2 tried to joke. "_At least we'll have Vayeate_," she added quickly as the three passed through, the emergency bulkheads sliding shut behind them.

Ogasawara checked her atmospheric sensors, equalized the pressure in her cockpit with a quick thumb press and a short alarm, then began undoing the seals on her helmet. "_Ah, there's that gravity I've been missing_," Damocles 1-3 announced.

"_I wager our top-heavy Squadron Commander's isn't a fan like you are_," Damocles 1-2 chirped back nervously.

Under her helmet, Ogasawara rolled her eyes. "Keep low speed and get ready with chaff and flare. When we pass through the artificial sky, every antiaircraft in a third of the colony is going to light us up. Carlos, where are we?"

"_Upspin of the Business District, somewhere over Fleming City. Bedroom community._"

"Any idea of the military presence there?"

"_None whatsoever. CAST doesn't have any squads there. We think it should be lighter._"

"_That's a great sounding 'should', Carlos_," Damocles 1-2 reported.

"Both of you, cut your throttle to idle, we're going to run out of space real soon. Damocles 2-1, come in."

The response was degraded and spotty, but it came through. "_Acknowledged, Damocles Actual. We're seeing a promising point two-five-zero meters downspin._"

"Fine, we'll give you the signal to breach. Be ready to be the spear-tip."

"_We always are, Squadcom._"

"_Damocles Actual, we've found it—maintenance hatch, thirty meters square. Tight fit._"

Emi pulled her helmet off before shaking her long hair free. "It'll work. We go through, one by one. Form up, I'll breach," she said, checking the diagnostics on her beam rifle. Within seconds, they were in the cavernous, cylindrical chamber lined with atmospheric scrubbing equipment on all sides, the floor 5 cm wide grating, covered entirely in ice. In the center, a square hatch thirty meters wide on either side was suspended by large hydraulic pistols

"_Read ma'am?_"

"Popping it in five," she announced, before counting off silently to herself, then squeezing the trigger. The chamber lit up with a flash when her shot turned the pistol into a glowing chunk of flower-shaped steel.

"_That wasn't five._"

"Shut up, Indira," she ordered before shooting the other piston and letting the grate fall free. Emi's Taurus dropped through first into the thick cloud layer, followed her wingmen. A few hundred meters away, three more Taurii did the same—almost immediately, they were all 'painted' by radar beamed from arrays that dotted the tops of building below.

"_I'm lit up!_" Emi announced.

"_Acknowledged, me too!_"

The thick grey-white overcast was lit up by trails of flares and clouds of chaff from the six mobile suits. In her cockpit, Emi felt herself in freefall for a few more seconds before she leaned forward on the throttle, her verniers roaring back to life. On her HUD, a dozen targeting boxes appeared in every direction, joined by one more—a single box twice as large with text above it: **UNKNOWN MOBILE UNIT**.

She zoomed in with her main camera—a red mobile armor surrounded by the husks of government buildings.

_There it is. _

Then it opened fire with beam cannons followed shortly by missiles.

"Jink!" Emi turned her machine and rapidly decreased her altitude. The mobile armor kept firing even as she dipped behind a high-rise apartment tower, its shining façade taking the fire for a few seconds before bursting flames, level by level.

Only ten stories from street-level, Emi righted herself and went into hover. Chrysanthemum was still firing—while dodging and bouncing around her cockpit, she pressed the scroll key on her left MFD. "God damn it, who the hell wrote these notes?" she demanded angrily before sighing in disgust at herself. "Right, of course…"

Then she remembered. _Walker did. _

"_Damn it! Emichan, remind me again why Suivant 1 can't just level its beam cannon at that thing and sink it in one shot?_"

"_Actually, I'd like to know as well, Damocles Actual_," Damocles 1-3 added.

Emi ground the palm of her hand against her right eye socket in frustration. "Because it's not a cruiser, it's a mobile suit sitting in the middle of a colony. According to Walker's notes, any beam fire powerful enough pierce its forward armor is going to rip through colony wall—that means whatever shelters are under us, not to mention cause a catastrophic breach."

"_Yes, not like all the other holes we've already made_," Damocles 1-3 explained sarcastically.

"Stow it, Carlos, that doesn't mean we're not using the big guns! Damocles Actual to all callsigns, who still has a working beam cannon?"

Three command units just outside the colony confirmed, Misfit 1-1 being the nearest. _Blame the sign of your birth, Walker. _"Misfit Actual, are you pinned?"

Delayed response. "_Yes ma'am, near the breach, but I…_"

"Misfit 2-2, 2-3, move to free Misfit Actual," she said before pressing a key. "Damocles Actual to Suivant 1, Misfit Actual has a working beam cannon," she announced with some reluctance.

"_I'm two steps ahead of you,_" Soris responded immediately. "_Just give me from a Taurus head-on, and I'll do the rest._"

"I think I know where this is going, ma'am, but I don't…I don't think this is a good plan," she added, doubt creeping in.

"_Than just _pretend_ it's a great plan and be excited to be part of it!_" Soris assured her. "_Misfit Flight, I'm ordering you to board the colony and form up on me! Damocles 1-1, 1-2 move behind Suivant 2!_"

In Chrysanthemum, Captain Soletta watched her secondary MFDs, both filled with weapons data, turn from green to red. She'd exhausted much of her ammunition stores, including all her guided air-to-air missiles.

"They can't just do this all day, or can they? I need to reload," she reminded herself, before switching one MFD over to communications. "This is Chrysanthemum to Military Quarter Field HQ, can you read me?"

A grainy response. "_Go ahead._"

"I'm out of air-to-air, low on others. Power's running fine, I want to reload at least once before I start overloading."

Delayed response. "_We read you Chrysanthemum. We're getting what's left of the tech staff now._"

"What do you mean, 'what's left'? What happened to Chief Null?"

A new voice answered. "_He's missing ma'am, we think he might have been on a helicopter hit by enemy beam fire. Listen Captain, ma'am, I give you the word of the entire Republican Guard Engineering Division when I say we'll figure something out. I'll get ordnance in from the underground if we have to drag them out of the hole with pulleys and our teeth._" He paused for a deep, shivering breath. "_I know the weapon's deployment has been less than ideal, but we'll make it work._"

Outside in the snow, the new chief of the technical staff was crowded along with a few subordinates in front of a portable radio on the back of an infantryman, shivering and exhaling clouds of vapor. "Putting aside ammunition, have there been any performance issues on your end? We know you haven't redlined Chrysanthemum's systems with the exception of the thrusters," he asked, before speaking away from the handset. "God, it's cold out here."

"_I'm not seeing issues on my end, Chief, but I haven't been pushing the systems hard out of concerns about construction._" There was a pause while the technician rubbed his hands together. "_Not in your work, I mean, but in the possibility of sabotage…_"

The technician tried to keep his teeth from chattering. "I understand completely, Captain, but compared to faulty construction I think the possibility of sabotage is…minimal." He bit his lip. "On the subject of sabotage, ma'am, it's not the mobile armor we were worried about but the dry dock."

A mortal shell impacted in a clearing nearby—a misdirected shot, he hoped—causing him to jump. "Of course, ma'am, in light of what's happened, that's really doesn't matter."

"_Wait, the dry dock? What do you mean?_"

"When I last saw Chief Null, he was investigated the dock bulkheads—he was fairly certain that it wasn't a mechanical failure or damage from OZ's bombardment, but deliberately interference, specifically from that prisoner-of-war who was working on the mobile armor."

"Walker," another technician reminded him.

"Right, a Lieutenant Walker, who's been missing for at least a day and is probably buried beneath us. Apparently, he…somehow misappropriated some personal electronics and used that to sabotage the door. But again, it's all redundant now, given that…Captain Soletta? Ma'am, are you there?" he asked into the handset.

For a moment in her cockpit, Soletta paused. She sat, as alarm tones blared about the steady stream of OZ troops entering the proximity. Out of the corner of her eye in a zoomed window on the starboard display, a six-man artillery crew, veterans of the Colorado Theatre of Operations, expertly loaded, aimed and fired a towed gun-howitzer, a relative relic in 152 mm caliber. As if oblivious to the world, the crew repeated the process over and over, barely taking pause to adjust their weapon's trajectory between firing it in direct support. What were they aiming at? Probably enemy Leo mobile suits, the only thing they had a reasonable chance of hitting. They kept aiming, firing and reloading, just as the pedestrian crossing next to them vanished in the wake of a beam cannon burst then soon washed over them. When the fire ceased, a trail of blackened, carved-up asphalt was left behind.

They'd been destroyed by a Taurus beam cannon, not even at half-power. OZ saw its enemy, reached out and destroyed them, just as they always had. Over and over again.

On her port display, a Space Leo and an Utahan Army Leo, backed into an urban corner, exchanged fire with a squad of OZ's combat engineers. The Utahan Leo was wielding a pair of dober guns, the left one grafted hastily onto the shoulder armor, a desperate but effective measure. The enemy combat engineers, twice as numerous, were held at bay as the Leo delivered a barrage that ruined everything in its way—building, armored barricade, roadblock, abandoned vehicle—with its alternating cannon blasts. But its pilot didn't see the OZ mobile suit armed with a missile launched behind its comrades—it raised its aim just high enough to clear the buildings it was hiding behind before firing a single missile, which flew in a low arc before slamming home with enough force to a city block and then some. The two defenders were reduced to scraps of violet and olive drab metal, along with their improvised weapons.

Over and over again.

_OZ_, she thought. _OZ. Always OZ._

The unending barrage of beam fire above her ceased so rapidly she hardly noticed it. A woman spoke over an unencrypted channel. "_Former Alliance Troops in D-120, this is Soris Armonia, acting commander of the Seventh Aerospace Division. I'm in the black Gundam inside your colony, and I've witnessed your valiant defense of your adopted homeland firsthand. Your ferocity and heroic resistance is to be commended. However!_"

Her right eyelid twitching, Soletta looked upwards inside her cockpit, in the direction of the speaker broadcasting Soris Armonia's voice. "_By now, you must realize that your efforts are entirely futile. I have no need for disguising language or philosophy—the inescapable reality is that you cannot win. The Republic of Noventa is exhausted. Your local defensive fleet has been routed. You will soon run out of ships, out of mobile suits, out of weapons and even ammunition. Your own leaders realize this better than you do, and have behaved accordingly. In the meantime, the entirety of OZ Space Forces Seventh Division will enter combat inside your colony torus, above your very homes and workplaces. They are even joined by officers _liberated _from your custody. Even if you could repulse us, you would be confronted by nothing less than the total remainder of OZ's military forces in Outer Space alongside the rest of Earth Sphere._"

"Officers liberated from our custody," Soletta muttered, shaking against her seat's restraints.

Armonia voice continued over the speakers. "_There can be no effective resistance at this point. So we ask you to think, think and surrender with your lives. Any military unit that discards its weapons or equipment and approaches OZ's lines will be given protection as according to the conventions of warfare. Understand that your defeat is a matter of inevitability now._"

The words stopped. At the intersection just 60 meters ahead of her, the Reserve Army crew of a Type 66, a Chinese-made self-propelled howitzer, had held their fire during the broadcast. The commander, rising from his hatch, looked startled for a moment before grapping at the antiaircraft machine gun mounted on his cupola.

"Dio salvi l'Alleanza!" the vehicle commander screamed into his headset. A Taurus that had crept up along ground level to just a few blocks from the mobile armor's position carefully aimed around the corner with its beam rifle and fired a single, precise shot, peeling the vehicle's armor away like a piece of fruit and vaporizing the crew. Even before the Type 66's ammunition had cooked off, the Taurus fired two more shots in burst, both crossing the clearing and striking near emergency exits of the dry dock, bathing them in fire.

A very specific portion of Captain Soletta's mind snapped, causing a visible tic in her shoulders. Her eyes wide open and glassy, she switched her HUD to air-to-air manual mode, armed both heavy beam cannons, and fired through rows of buildings of Old Town between her and the enemy mobile suit. An angled wave of charged particles cut through row after row before the remainder cut the Taurus to glowing ribbons.

OZ's response was immediately. In the other Gundam, Luna Armonia immediately switched frequencies. "All callsigns, this is Suivant 2. Chrysanthemum is on the move, I repeat, Chrysanthemum is on the move. Acknowledge?"

By chance, an unencrypted response came.

"_I will kill all of you._"

**X**

By the time Walker's flight had emerged from the ruins and barricades around the breach, there were already listening to situational updates from the First Recon Battalion, which had beaten them to the scene.

"_Damocles Actual to all callsigns, the enemy is shooting through cover, I repeat, enemy is now firing through cover. Get some altitude immediately, but watch for antiair!_" As tired as he was, Walker could still recognize Ogasawara Emi's sharp, severe voice, a harsh mezzo-soprano. He considered responding when an office high-rise that had survived a few blocks from the breach began to topple over.

"_Get back!_" Kanna commanded. Walker's Taurus narrowly avoided the rain of bricks, cement and steel that came down on them.

"_We just lost four Taurus troops, including one from First Recon!_" Mazuri shrieked from Misfit 1-3. "_No, make that five, Damocles 1-3 is hit!_"

"_I'm hitting the silk!_" a distorted voice announced, as above them, a Taurus in fighter mode broke into pieces before crashing into the artificial sky in a plume of fire.

"_Damocles 1-2, I just saw Carlos go down, he bailed successfully!_"

"_Anyone else under the impression that Flight Officer Motta has particularly poor luck_?" Misfit 1-3 asked.

"It sounds like we're not going to have any mobility above street level while we're in here," Walker said while trying to hide just how uncomfortable the situation made him. "Misfit callsigns, I want you to form up at altitude zero and stay close, we're going to…"

"_Downspin, hundred meters and closing!_"

"What?" Walker shouted, turning his machine just in time to see an enemy Leo with an old fashion ground-warfare missile launcher tube. The machine let loose one rocket in Walker's direction, which he narrowly evaded with a short burst from his verniers, sending his machine down the narrow street and away from his wingmen, in the direction of a collegiate sports stadium.

Taking cover behind one of the stadium walls, he tried to get his breath under control while asking himself aloud "Why didn't I see him? How did I miss it?"

"_They're splitting us up!_" Misfit 1-3 warned. Between them, a collapsed building filled the streets with impassable-looking rubble.

"Well, it's working, isn't it?" Misfit 1-2 snapped back while showering the Leo with beam fire. "Misfit Actual, are you all right?"

"I'm just a little shaken," he lied, bringing up the urban overlay on an MFD. "Let's meet at Thirtieth and the Aurelia Expressway overpass!" he ordered. "We can bypass the bunker where that Leo must have come from."

"_Sir, can't you just blast it with your beam cannon and be done with it?_"

Walker tried to scratch his forehead and instead tapped his helmet's visor to his annoyance. "Yes, but I don't know what the beam cannon'll do at these ranges, and I've got barely enough power for a dozen shots."

"_Suivant 2 to Misfit Actual. Have you cleared the breach yet?_"

_Sort of. _"Yes ma'am, I mean, yes, Ms. Armonia. Where's Suivant 1?"

A calmer voice interrupted. "_Suivant 1 to Misfit Actual—looks like my little speech didn't earn me any friends. I'm pinned down in a park, apparently the whole Reserve Army's gunning for the black Gundam now._"

"What about Suivant 2's defensors field?" he asked, trying to sneak as much as he could manage in a Taurus down an empty street.

"_It's no good—those laser cannons the Alliance had outside are deployed in here as well. We need _your _beam cannon, Walker._"

"Acknowledged," he replied, hoping the fear wasn't detectable in his voice.

"_And watch out for that red mobile armor, it seems to have it out for Taurii._"

Walker held back a complaining snarl. "I'm sorry, what do you mean by having it out for…"

He heard something and stopped—a familiar sound, one he hated. High-pitched mechanically whirling, just barely audible over the sound of artillery thumping in the distance in his cockpit's speakers. Completing a half-revolution to the right, he turned his machine in time to see an enormous volume of low-power beam fire punch hundreds of holes through the stadium walls. He didn't escape the fire, but the intervening structure had dissipated their destructive force enough that they didn't do anything beyond punching dents and gashes in his mobile suit, even if a few came dangerous close to the camera.

_Beam gatling!_

The portion of the stadium facing him began to collapse inwards and backward, obscuring everything in a cloud of snow and dust.

By the time he'd switched to thermographic visioning, he didn't need it. Cruising through the toppled ruins in his direction came a massive leviathan, shaped like the top-half of a space cruiser and painted bright red. Walker had seen it before, in person, but from his mobile suit, it felt like it truly dwarfing him.

"Oh no," he muttered.

"_Walker, what the hell are you waiting for, jump!_" a voice commanded almost too quickly to make out the individual words. Without thinking or firing his weapon, Walker leaned forward on both sticks and shot into the air on his vernier thrusters, rising over the Old Town. Methodically, Chrysanthemum leaned back on its massive thruster engines and raised its angle of attack, firing with both its ventrally-mounted beam cannons and its dorsally-carried missile racks. Three missiles sped past Walker, one exploding just beyond him bombarding the back of his machine with lethal shrapnel from tis continuous-rod warhead and setting off alarms in his cockpit.

"_Countermeasures, use your damn countermeasures!_" the same voice ordered more clearly. Walker hit the switch, sending a cloud of chaff and flare out as he came crashing back down to the streets barely a half kilometers downspin of the wrecked stadium. He switched to his beam rifle and instinctively turned to face his massive enemy, putting his air-to-ground reticle over the target designator that boxed part of the red mobile armor, and was able to get off three shots from his beam rifle before he went crashing into the ground again, this time from a violent, painful impact.

"_God _damn_ it!_"

Walker just groaned, feeling more nauseated as well as exhausted. "Squadron Commander Ogasawara?" he finally spat out.

"_Damn it, Misfit Actual, what are you even doing in here?_" she asked angrily, though from her tone Walker could tell she knew the answer. "_Are you delirious? Hand over your beam cannon, I do this myself!_"

"No, ma'am, I can do this!" he insisted, righting himself in his cockpit an checking the oxygen hose on his helmet—he'd thought it had been loosened by the sharp impacts. It wasn't, the nausea was coming from something else. "Damocles Actual, this is Misfit Actual, I can do this, just tell me where to go," he heard himself lie. _As long as my machine has this beam cannon on its back…_

Emi's Taurus had knocked Walker's own off of an apartment complex and onto the street, a few seconds before beam cannon fire turned it into a molten puddle of slag poured out over the street behind it. A hostile Leo appeared down the adjacent street—she righted her machine and put two shots into its torso with her beam rifle before maneuvering behind the cover of a taller building.

"_I will take that beam cannon of your wreck and do this myself if I have to_."

"Of course, I'm counting on that, ma'am."

"_Then come on before you lose your verniers somehow_," her voice commanded. "_Suivant 2's defensor discs can still stop most that things weapons long enough for even _you _to get a shot in._"

"Yes ma'am, I understand, but will a Type 12 beam cannon be enough, even at full power?"

"_Just do it, Walker_!"

"Yes ma'am!"

With long, low-powered bursts from their vernier thrusters, the two proceeded to the intersection, then traveled parallel to a major avenue to flank the mobile armor's position.

"_Damocles 3-1's going down, can't see a parachute._"

"_This is Eagle Actual, I'm hit! Trailing smoke!_"

"_Batillum Actual to Eagle Actual, try and stay low. It looks like it's only gunning after the Taurus troops now!_"

"_Leos mark three heading downspin along Forty-Fourth Street!_"

"_Well of course they're taking advantage of the distraction! They're not stupid! All callsigns, watch for Leo infiltration, there's a lot of debris out there to hide in._"

Both machines continued on to the where the street ended—the pavement fell into a massive gap in the ground left by a collapsed department store, 80 meters long and 30 meters wide, and deep enough for a mobile suit to easily take cover in it. Across several blocks, into the Military Quarter, was the mobile armor, partially obscured by a large neoclassical hotel and theater.

"_Damocles Actual to Misfit Actual, position is clear—now, to make sure you don't fuck this up, I'm only going to explain this once…_" Emi began.

"I wait here in the pit for the mobile armor to cross into the opening, then take my shot, yes, I get it, Damocles Actual, I'm not a complete idiot!" Walker spat out, interrupting her while switching to his beam cannon. "Squadcom, sorry for interrupting, I'm still a little shaken," he admitted. Given that he couldn't stop shaking in his own trembling, it was an understatement.

"_Don't worry about it, Walker, just do it. Wait for the signal—Suivant 2's defensor field. Because once the field is up, you're only going to have a second before that monster sees them, you got it?_"

"I got it! I mean, affirmative, ma'am!" he shouted, stowing his beam rifle on his torso hardpoint and switching to his beam cannon.

In her own cockpit, Emi rolled her eyes. "You really shouldn't have been a soldier, Walker," she muttered privately before bending her machine's legs and leaning forward on both sticks. Her vernier engines at full throttle promptly propelled her Taurus high above the city and she simultaneously spun around to begin peppering Chrysanthemum below her with beam fire.

"_Come and get me, Red!_" she taunted over the open channel, evading as Chrysanthemum began the sluggish process of aiming and firing in response. Walker's machine remained in the pit, electronic countermeasures at full power for whatever they'd do at these extremely short distances, waiting for the signal.

"Just wait for it…" he told himself as Chrysanthemum began to move backwards among the ruins, exposing more of its massive port side in profile.

Damocles Actual expelled the remainder of her countermeasures to evade the missile salvo fired at her, but could do nothing versus the twin arcs of beam fire and the volume spewed out by the beam gatling—feeling the Taurus raked by nonstop fire, its pilot killed her thrusters and let her fall back downwards into the cover of the city. After continuing the barrage for a few seconds, Chrysanthemum lowered its angle of attack, turning back to where the Taurus had first emerged from…

"Damn it, signal already!" Walker hissed. His beam cannon had finished its charging sequence and he considered taking the shot anyway when, through snow and rubble ten planet defensors shot out on their small thrusters while dragging each other by magnetic attraction.

And they went right past him, across Chrysanthemum's clearing, several blocks into the Military Quarter, where they formed a circular immediately in front of another black mobile suit carrying another massive beam rifle.

Walker stared at Vayeate across the clearing and for a few seconds, his nausea and exhaustion seemed alleviated. _I was the bait too._

Watching the red mobile armor sluggishly turn in direction to face her, Soris gave a needless smile. "Thanks for playing your part, Walker," she sang before squeezing the trigger on her right stick, a proximity alarm tone blaring as she did.

To the machine's right, out of the ruins of one of the bunkers in the military quarter, a pair of olive drab mobile suits fired directly into Suivant 1—one with a 105 mm autocannon, whose shells were either caught by the magnetic field around it or harmlessly deflected off its thick armor, and another with a military laser cannon that it had dragged from its mounting. The red laser twinkled through the water vapor, burn cleanly through a number of steel girders sticking out from the taller ruins, and struck the massive cyclotron carried on the mobile suit's back. In the three seconds the beam continued firing, a plume of fire spat out of the auxiliary generator for Vayeate's solitary weapon along the penetrating cut, and the weapon itself died.

Soris Armonia was at loss for words. "_Shit._"

Having seen Suivant 1's catastrophic weapons failure, Walker fired his own weapon—bathing the mobile armor's extreme stern with charged particles that quickly tore through the complex array of maneuvering wings and thrusters that made up Chrysanthemum's rear third, along with its long-range antenna. The attack didn't give it pause, and once the mobile armor completed its revolution it fired both beam cannons directly into the waiting defensor field, just as Suivant 1 hastily retreated, one of the offending Leos a limp wreck in its left manipulator

Walker stared at the smoldering, glowing backside of the mobile armor, stunned. _If it were a warship, hitting the engines—just the engines—would have still led to an emergency reactor shutdown or an outright failure. So it's not like a warship, it's more compartmentalized. _Nausea and exhaustion were returning, and his beam cannon had completely overheated from a full-power shot, cloud of steam and rain pouring off of it.

_Even if I get another shot, where could I hit it where it would make a difference? Every forward facing surface is intended to deflect capital ship fire, it doesn't need its maneuvering system to fire back._

The answer was obvious, if unconvincing.

_That leaves the core, which is just your normal Leo mobile suit._

"_Damn it, what the hell happened?! Suivant 2, move to cover Suivant 1!_"

"_Already on it, Squadcom._"

"_Misfit Actual, get the hell out of there! What, you think it's not going to turn around? Misfit 1-2 and 1-3, where the hell are you?_"

"_This is Misfit 1-2 with 1-3, we're pinned down by direct artillery from the bunker on Nazionale and Forty-First! Is triple-A cleared yet?_"

"_Negative, Misfit 1-2, do _not _jump! We don't need two more Taurii lost to air defenses!_"

"_Walker, are you just _standing _there?_" Emi demanded over the channel.

"_Yes ma'am!_"

"Then _move!_" she barked, leaning forward against her restraints and squeezing her right trigger switch with her ungloved hand over and over again, showering Chrysanthemum with ineffective fire from her beam rifle. She kept firing even as the weapon overheat tone sounded and her weapon disabled itself, her MFDs flashing red.

"_Yes ma'am!_" she heard before Walker's Taurus shot out of the pit on Vernier engines at emergency war power before falling back into the city a dozen blocks away, much as she had. Chrysanthemum, unaffected by her fire, began drifting forward slowly on its ground-effect thrusters. Rather than using its beam cannons again, it fired a single, carefully-aimed shot from its rail gun—a hypersonic armor-piercing shell punched a neat, orderly hole through everything remaining structure in its path in Walker's direction.

"_It appears she's ignoring us for now_," Suivant 2 announced matter-of-factly, her cockpit video appearing at the corner of Emi's forward display

"I see that Luna!" she snapped back before closing the window, the overheat tone still echoing in her cockpit. Emi stared at herself in the reflection of her forward display, reached into one of the pockets of her normal suit and took out a tube of lipstick. In her right hand she cracked the metal casing in half, squeezed the colored oily waxy between her palm and fingers, then used her thumb and middle fingers to draw two lines from the inner corners of her eyes to the jawline.

"_What should we do?_"

"We still have two Gundams, don't we?"

Suivant 1 responded. "_I do enjoy the way you think, Damocles Actual_."

"_Damocles 1-2 to Damocles Actual—forget it, if that mobile armor wants to destroy the while city, let it! Use Suivant 2's defensor field to take an escape vector!_"

Emi uselessly struck her left fist against the cockpit furniture. "Negative! I'm tired of this shit—and I don't think one of us has a vector!"

"_One of us?_"

Even with only its ground-effect thermonuclear thrusters for propulsion, Chrysanthemum could plow through the pulverized remains of the edge of the Military Quarter. When Walker was able to get his machine back onto its feet, alarms blaring in his ear, it dawned on him finally: there was no escape. _I'm staring down a Gundam, or something worse, but the difference is I can't run away. I'm trapped inside this colony torus. I have nowhere to run._

He reached to his instrumentation and shut off the alarms. _I'm really going to die here._

His jaw went slack. It was such a profoundly disappointing outcome, not at all what he had imagined or hoped for in the eventuality of being killed in combat. He was going to die, deliberately and not incidentally, in the middle of a combat zone.

_And it's not even going to be a good death._

"_Walker, you need to move!_"

_How did I even come to this point?_

In his head, someone else's voice spoke to him clearly and succinctly. _Well, you did keep that machine from leaving the colony, didn't you?_

The answer, smartly and a little smugly, came from Major Khattāb. Where was he now? Was he even still a thing to speak of as such? Walker had left him bleeding on the floor of a building in the Military Quarter that may not have even existed anymore. Even now, he could see the scant few defenders in the Military Quarter running for their lives on foot, abandoning their vehicles and weapons to regroup where the whole world wasn't on fire.

_So wasn't this part of your plan?_

An exhausted Walker blinked. Khattāb was dead. He would be too. And he didn't mind as much as he should have, as exhausted as he was. The wounded-but-still-dangerous mobile armor plowed towards him. He didn't want to eject—he just wanted to rest a little while.

As he felt himself nodding off, out of the corner of his eye he saw one of his MFDs change to the communications system, a flashing box indicating an unencrypted transmission. Releasing his right stick, he touched one of the keys.

The speaker crackled. "_Dio salvi l'Alleanza. Dio salvi l'Alleanza. Dio salvi l'Alleanza_," a woman's voice repeated, over and over.

He recognized it. He should have known who it'd be, after all, he had that information. Who else would have been the behemoth's pilot?

"Captain Soletta? Captain Soletta, are you in there?" he asked nonetheless before putting a hand against his helmet. "Of course you'd be in there, who else could it be? Carmen Soletta, this is Oswald Walker, in the Taurus mobile suit you've fired at! We don't need to do this!"

The other pilot seemed genuinely surprise—the mobile armor halted abruptly, grinding to a stop across the ruined street beneath it. Without thinking, Walker lowered the long beam cannon he was still carrying.

"Now what?" he asked. As if to oblige him, his communications system beeped several tones in rapid succession. Something was being broadcast over a wide range of frequencies simultaneously, from UHF to THF, uuencoded but modulated to be carried over a long distance, even as far as Luna—the sort of broadcasting power that necessitated a massive communications array on a large warship.

Inside her cockpit, Lady Soris smirked—not because she had torn the second Leo apart with her Gundam's own hands, pummeling the armored cranium compartment over and over again, but because who it had to be.

"_That _would be the rest of the Noventan Fleet."

At first, a man's voice came through, remarkably clear. "_Attention, arriving Alliance ships. This is Lieutenant Colonel North, nominal commander of the Seventh Division and commanding officer of all ships in this area belonging to the OZ Space Forces Navy. You have come too late: D-120 is completely surrounded, the interior city has fallen, and the capitulation of the government of the so-called Republic of Noventa is inevitable. Rather than join the forces that continue to resist uselessly, I offer you the choice to surrender your fleet unconditionally on the battlefield, in accordance to the conventions governing warfare. I await your response._"

A woman spoke. "_Nominal Commander Lieutenant Colonel North, this is Admiral Arroway of _Alliance_ Space Forces. I gratefully accept your terms and order all forces under my command to stand down from battle stations and await further instruction._"

Locally, laughter could be heard broadcasted from Suivant 1, as it dropped the crippled Leo it was throttling. "_North, you smooth talking son of a bitch! Maybe I'll finally learn to stop underestimating you!" _she cried out between laughter.

Walker looked up from his instrumentation. "Captain Soletta, Carmen, it's all over! There's nothing else to be done, none of us need to…"

He was cut off when he felt himself be squeezed against his restraints as his mobile suit was plowed into the tall parking garage behind him. Chrysanthemum had just rammed him.

"_Goddamn it Walker, stop stalling and take the fucking shot!_" Emi ordered.

Walker resisted the urge to vomit. His mobile suit was pinned under Chrysanthemum's enormous bow, between the two heavy beam cannons and the rail gun. His mobile suit's right manipulator was holding onto the beam cannon, just barely.

"Don't do this, Carmen! Don't do this to me and don't do it to yourself!" he screeched, trying vainly to disguise the fear in his voice.

This time, the pilot answered. "They killed Noventa! They killed Khattāb! They've killed everyone worth a damn in this world!" Carmen screamed back in her cockpit, her body writhing against her seat's restraints. "Don't you see that? What the hell else is there?"

A voice came back immediately, still clearly frightened. "_There are a million people on this colony!_"

Carmen eased back on the throttle, and felt her hull vibrations soften. "Walker. Walker, why are you still here?"

A delayed response. "_I don't know, Carmen._"

In the middle of her forward display, the Taurus remained pinned down—Walker pinned down. For a second, she pictured him sitting in that barren room, handcuffed, his dossier and a cheap work uniform for him held in her arms, the first time she'd met the strange young terrestrial.

"What's your reason, Walker? Outer Space took your father, you must have a reason."

The response took even longer. "_...I…suppose because I barely remember him now. It's happened a hundred thousand times before me._"

"_A hundred thousand times," _Walker heard back.

"_Take the fucking shot, Walker!_" Emi's enraged voice commanded in his helmet, causing him to jerk abruptly. "_I don't care if you that's under minimum optimal range, that's an order!_"

Just the sound of her voice made his right arm move on instinct, pushing the stick forward and tilting the flightstick, raising the beam cannon up, but he stopped himself.

"Please, Captain, don't make a million. It isn't worth it anymore," he pleaded.

In her cockpit, Carmen hung her head down. "When are you and your kind going to learn, Walker, we extraterrestrials don't care about your precious humanity any more than those of you _who were born in the dirt_!"

Carmen gave a blood curdling scream before leaning forward on both sticks. Faster than he'd anticipated, Walker was sent through the parking garage and when cement blocks and automobile parts stopped falling, he found himself staring down the barrel of the higher of her two beam cannons with his forward monitor display, the emitter glowing and causing video corruption.

"_When are you going to understand that?!"_

Instinct took over again, and he flicked a switch on his left stick before pushing both forward—his retro-thrusters barely managed to shoot him through the gap between the underside of the mobile armor and what had been the structure's ground floor, while she turned the space he'd been into molten concrete. His Taurus barely managed to grab his beam rifle as it careened into the roadway outside, while several blocks downspin, a mobile suit kept firing its own beam rifle at Chrysanthemum.

"_TAKE. THE. FUCK-ING. SHOT. WAL-KER!_"

Even before he'd managed to aim, Walker had already squeezed the trigger and was going through the firing sequence, just as Carmen's countermeasures fired—a dozen small missiles appeared from hatches along the machine's back and descended upon him, forcing him to shift his aim to intercept as many as he could. The charged particle wave shot over top of the mobile armor, scorching the red paint coating. One of the evading missiles cleared the debris, doubled around and struck the Taurus in the back, having barely missed the beam fire, and he toppled onto the ground in a plume of fire. More alarms blared, including one demanding he deploy countermeasures and another reminding him he was out of countermeasures.

"Not this again..." Walker noticed the thin crack in the visor of his helmet as his displays flickered from the violent shock the machine had just experienced. His mobile suit had actually run out of alarms—more systems were compromised than functional, and all four MFDs were filled by his diagnostics alerts. He was barely able to turn his machine to face upright. "This is Misfit Actual, I'm down!"

Something in the back of his mind snapped. "God_damn _it I'm down!" he repeated.

Spotting Carmen turning for another shot, Luna's mobile suit used a short jump to leap across to the street. The Mercurius crouched over again and fired its thrusters, darting up the highway ramp directly to what was left of the parking garage and deploying its planet defensors. Just as planned, the defensor shield was barely up in time to catch the blunt of Carmen's cannon, as Vayeate slammed into the mobile armor's side at full power.

"_Walker, catch!_"

As another alarm tone sounded, Walker's Taurus raised both its arms in front of its torso and locked it in place, while Walker pulled the emergency lever to blast off his own compartment hatch. The armored plating was knocked off by explosive bolts, the instrumentation and display panels lifted, and the door slid open, but sending his mobile suit tilting forward—instinctively, he snatched whatever he could, sticking his right arm through the sling of his Benelli, which held for a second before it popped free of the cockpit furniture and fell out of the cockpit with him. Walker just managed to slide down along the Taurus to the ruins below without further injury when both Vayeate and the mobile armor slammed through the highway barrier and into the office behind him, knocking it clear off its foundation.

The force of the impact immediately sent Walker sliding along the concrete face-down until an uprooted pipe stopped him. The visor of his helmet was thoroughly scuffed and cracked, and rising to his feet, he undid the magnetic seals and tossed it to the ground, letting the oxygen hose pop out of his portable life support with it. On his hands and knees, Walker filled his lungs full of freezing air, almost enough to cause him to black out. He could barely see, and wondered if he'd damaged his eyes, before feeling the tears streaming down his face. He ineffectively wiped his face with his sleeve before pulling his goggles down from his forehead and over his eyes.

_Deaf, blind and alone. So Rani was right. _

Dragging the shotgun after him, Walker watched Chrysanthemum topple over, the black Gundam still clinging to its side before crawling onward. Between labored breaths, he turned back to look at the battered, smoking wreck of Misfit 1-1 and forced himself to stand upright. Trying to hold the semi-automatic shotgun as militarily as he could manage, he made direct line for the overturn streetcar Chrysanthemum had turned as it plowed across multiple lanes.

Fuming with rage and taking short, hissing breaths through his teeth, Walker climbed over the streetcar's axle, then up the still-smoldering red superstructure of Chrysanthemum's bow, his normal suit protecting his hands and feet as he clamored up. Standing atop it in person, Chrysanthemum was not that large—the bow was barely more than twenty meters to the visible core, shorter than the length of the massive beam cannons it mounted underneath and to the side. Walker felt a gnawing, indignant anger rising in him and finally reached the end of the bow before looking down at the familiar torso of an OZ-06SMS 'Leo' painted in red and white.

He forced himself to stand still, unslung the weapon and carelessness felt for anything resembling a safety and found the mode-selection switch, pushing it to pump-action and angrily chambering a slug-shot round. From the end of the bow Walker aimed and fired a shot at the gap between the torso and the compartment hatch, then squeezed the trigger. The resulting blast was not nearly as strong as he expected—he thought for sure it'd knock him off his feet, like everything else that had happened—and found the slug left a rewarding gap in the hinge. Pumping the action more carefully, he fired again. A loud blast for his ringing ears. He fired again, then again, again, screaming as he emptied the seven shells in the tubular magazine.

He knew it wasn't smart—even if Chrysanthemum did not come back to life, or suffer some catastrophic ammo explosion or subsystem failure that would kill him instantly, the explosive bolts of the cockpit door would mangle at this distance—but he didn't care, and surveyed his handiwork with angry, confused satisfaction. Still shouldering the weapon with one hand, he perched over the edge and gave the cockpit hatch, already loose, a kick, and then another before it spewed out a cloud of gas that nearly cooked his face and popped open of its own accord.

Hacking and sneezing, without thinking it further he dropped himself over the edge of the bow structure and onto the cockpit door, weapon in hand, and pulled the rescue & recovery lever on the back of the cockpit display module, then gave it a slight push—the hydraulic systems did the rest and the cockpit lifted up and open.

Through teary eyes he found the familiar layout of an OZ mobile suit pilot's compartment, instrumentation still blinking, the two visible extreme starboard and port displays filled with flickering digital static and artifacts. In the seat, her disciplined hair in a disheveled mess over her face and the collar snaps of her normal suit broken open, was the pilot, her head arched back. Walker stared at her down the Benelli's sights.

He recalled the shotgun's tubular magazine was empty, but he still had his sidearm. He kept staring as she gave a pained moan and lifted her head up, clutching it with one hand and finally speaking.

"My head..."

Walker's hurt too and while he'd managed to avoid vomiting, he still felt nauseous. "Mine too."

She opened her left eye just enough to look at him, he thought, and began undoing her seat restraints slowly. He felt certain she still had her sidearm too, but she didn't reach for the holster after she'd release herself, instead trying to stand in the cockpit.

Walker glanced over the sights as she stumbled to her feet and inched towards him, then took him by the left arm, bloodshot green eyes staring at him. She mouthed something he couldn't hear amid the ringing his head.

"What?" he asked uselessly.

Another voice answered—he took a second to realize he was still wearing his headset. "_Suivant 2 to Suivant 1, Soris, respond!_"

"_This is Suivant 1. Luna, dear, I'm all right. Is Chrysanthemum still functioning? I'm blind in here._"

"_Suivant 2 to all callsigns, Chrysanthemum to isn't moving, all units converge on the mobile armor. I'm pulling Suivant 1 clear._"

Dazed, Walker was unsure what Luna meant until there was a blunt, mechanical wrenching loud enough for him to hear and the cockpit compartment turned abruptly, the other pilot falling at him. Exhausted, he dropped the Benelli and manage to catch her, though neither that nor the traction coating on his boots was enough to keep from falling backwards. One thought took urgency over all others: after all this, he didn't want to die of a broken neck from a fall.

Clinging to the pilot he looked over her shoulder and saw a metal carabiner hanging from one of the harness of her flight suit—a feature of Alliance normal suits that OZ had discarded—reached over her back, took it, and fastened it on the nearest fixture in the cockpit, one of the flightsticks, and held on with whatever he had left. The two tumbled out of the cockpit, down through the gap between the mobile armor and its core, and out into the open as the whole of Chrysanthemum began to roll over. The hardness had only a few meters of slack—the pilot jerked to a halt, his hold gave way and fell eight meters hard onto his back, landing on an intact portion of sidewalk. Chrysanthemum groaned like a dying animal as smoke and flames shot out of the hull and its pilot, dangling like a worm, jerked once before the carabiner snapped open and she fell.

Instinct took over while his conscious mind remained unaware of his surroundings—he rolled over his right arm and once facing upwards, tried to flatten his arms and legs when 58 kilograms of pilot and four kilograms of normal suit landed on him, knocking whatever air was still in his lungs out and leaving him deaf and oblivious to the world.

"Zechs, I've lost another one," he tried to gasp out at the end.

Damocles Actual, trailing smoke and flames, set down 70 meters upspin from the toppled wreck of Chrysanthemum, in the middle of what had been a Reserve Army defensive barricade. Two men lay dead between four heavy machineguns and an AMGM system still erected on its tripod—just enough of a military presence to remind the Taurus pilot to take out her assault carbine and unfold the stock as she descended on her tether. She took a deep breath of biting cold air and brushing her dark hair out of her eyes, then continued up what was left of the street, stepping over the cracked pavement littered with vehicle and mobile suit debris, until she came cross the two pilots lying on the street. Snow was still falling but the whole area had been cooked by Chrysanthemum that any accumulation on the ground was long gone.

The squadron commander saw a Benelli dual-mode shotgun 20 meters away from them, in her direction, and picked it up by the stock. Confirming its magazine was empty, she let water drip from it for another moment and slung it over her back before continuing onward. She switched her own weapon's safety off and shouldered the assault carbine once she was less than ten meters from the two pilots, taking slow deliberate steps.

Walker didn't move, though the pilot on top of him did. She rose on her arms and knees and limped off of him, trying to stand up before rolling onto her own back. Looking up, she stared up at the long muzzle brake on the OZ pilot's carbine.

"Captain Carmen Soletta?" she asked, staring down her sights back at her. "I'm Squadron Commander Ogasawara Emi of OZ's First Recon Battalion"

Carmen matched her stare with tear-filled eyes for another second. Then she closed them and with her right hand and reached not for her holster, but for the front of her normal suit that had been wrenched open almost to her navel. Pulling a clasp with her thumb, she held it closed, blinked the tears out of her eyes and turned her head away.

"Do as you like. It's your country now."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_I really hope I never again write a chapter +22,000 words long._

_I told myself that, no matter what, I wasn't going to split chapter 50 into two parts, no matter how much logical sense it made to, that the final battle with Chrysanthemum and the fall of D-120 would be knocked out in this chapter, come hell or high water. If anyone ever gets around to reading this monstrosity of a chapter, maybe they'll let me know if it was a stroke of brilliance, or a horrible mistake. _

_And it's not just length, a ridiculous number of 'contingencies' came up: a bad week at work in general, falling over on wet stairs another week and giving myself a serious 'bone bruise' on my spine (which I'm still recovering from, technically), a worrying tremor in my right index finger (my most used finger, which went 28 years with no such issues prior to this, including a dozen years as the finger of a pianist), all just served to slow me down. I actually had a decent amount of time to write, in honesty, so I can't offer much excuse._

_And then there's the content. I decided months ago that this epic showdown first, needed to be epic, and second, needed to have a _Gundam _ending, and not a _Soldier of OZ _ending. The outcome is deliberately out of character for this story, I think, and Walker's actions are very much like a Gundam protagonist, instead of the more cynical being he usually is. Does Walker's naivety make it work? I really hope so. There's no changing that. And it's not just Walker: how out of character is the behavior of others? Emi was unable to take the spotlight as the hardass she's been established as, the Armonia sisters aren't the unstoppable juggernauts they ought to be, Kanna fails to be the protective big sister she always is. What other strange behavior have we seen?_

_But at least it's over. Whenever I get around to it, the story is going to make its shift from the war against the Alliance to the eventual split of OZ and, eventually, the rise of the White Fang. As always, feedback is appreciate (especially for a monster like this one)._

_Now, to go through all the references:_

_Obviously, the final allegedly-epic battle is a heavy homage to episode four of _Gundam Unicorn_, "At the Bottom of the Gravity Well"-no surprise given the heavy inspiration of Loni Garvey on Carmen Soletta (though I would say Captain Soletta resembles Ms. Garvey's manga/novel character more than the OVA version). Less obviously might be the conversation between the two Septim men, a direct call back to _Downfall _or _Der Untergang _and the world renown "Hitler Rant/Reaction" meme associated with it. Not to humble brag, but I recall the origins of the meme with the demo for _Flight Simulator X_, as I was playing the game series at the time. I had resist the urge to turn Grandfather Septim into angry ranting Adolf Hitler, but I couldn't resist poking some fun at the portray of Gwinter Septim II in the dub (a perfect fit really, too bad he's dead). Soris Armonia's speech (it wouldn't be OZ without speeches) is very much like General Revil's most famous declaration shortly before his death, "Zeon is Exhausted!" that he used to rally the Earth Federation to its final victory in UC 0079. Finally, Soletta's line that closes this ridiculously long chapter is a line spoken by Heero Yuy to Relena Peacecraft-frankly, I think Soletta uses is way better than Heero does, who simply has to confront that his number one fangirl would like to share a bench with him. There are other references to, but you'll have to find those yourself!_


	51. The Cynics' Cathedral

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 51 – The Cynics' Cathedral**

_18 September, AC 195, L1-D-120 _

_"Attention, arriving Alliance ships. This is Lieutenant Colonel North, nominal commander of OZ Space Forces Seventh Division and commanding officer of all ships in this area belonging to the OZ Space Forces Navy. You have come too late: D-120 is completely surrounded, the interior city has fallen, and the capitulation of the government of the so-called Republic of Noventa is inevitable. Rather than join the forces that continue to resist uselessly, I offer you the choice to surrender your fleet unconditionally on the battlefield, in accordance to the conventions governing warfare. I await your response."_

On the bridge of the _Africana, _Helena Arroway glanced at her normal suit's chronograph, glanced at her nearby XO who nodded back, then eased back into her seat. "Nominal Commander Lieutenant Colonel North, this is Admiral Arroway of Alliance Space Forces. I gratefully accept your terms and order all forces under my command to stand down from battle stations and await further instruction."

"Admiral, what are you doing?" General Grumman very quietly to her side.

Arroway ignored him and turned to the sensors station. "Report."

"No further movement from the enemy formation—but their primary weapons systems are powering down, ma'am."

"It sounds like we're in agreement," her executive officer growled, apparently satisfied.

"So when do we strike? Shouldn't we begin visual targeting?" Grumman asked loudly, the only officer on the bridge who wasn't wearing a normal suit.

"We'll do no such thing, General," she told him warningly "This isn't some _manga _or Hollywood cinema. Childish sneak attacks are not real strategy."

Grumman stared at the side of Arroway's head as she eased into her throne, his hands clenched at his sides. The XO, feeling a little nervous, looked back in time to see him draw his service pistol and aim at her temple, then flip the safety switch.

"Get the master-at-arms!" he ordered a nearby sailor. "General Grumman, stand down!"

"What do you think you're doing, Arroway?"

"I'd ask you the same thing, you're pointing a loaded sidearm at the commander of the ship you're residing on _and _a member of the cabinet of the nation that offered you asylum," she replied curtly, remaining slumped in her throne.

"General!"

"Shut up!" he snapped, even as sailors behind him began forming a perimeter around the rear of the bridge. "Just shut up! I want to hear why Admiral Helena Arroway decided to betray us. And I doubt I'm alone."

Arroway gave him a bemused look when an alarm tone echoed. "Ma'am, one of mobile suits in Squadron 4 has broken off from its unit and is targeting the bridge!"

"Squadron 4, stop him!"

Arroway said nothing while the bridge crew hastily responded, while the console at the comm station sounded a tone. "Put him through," she muttered, sounding more annoyed than anything.

"_This is Beagle 3-1, I've targeted you with my mega-cannon_." Only 1200 meters away, a Pioneer Leo armed with a 26-meter-long railgun mounting a four-meter-wide radome and sensor suite had awkwardly aimed it directly at the armored shutters over the _Africana_'s bridge. "_The nearest mobile suit is a half-click away, target me and I will destroy the entire bridge._"

"Fire at us, and you'll kill General Grumman, you fool. What the hell are you…" the XO growled.

Arroway raised a hand and interrupted him. "You want a reason? Very well: I gave ten years of my life to the Alliance. For what? To be propped up on a stage for this farce? To rally the delusional fools of Outer Space to a lost cause? I'm very tired of being on the losing side."

Grumman was shaking now. "Rescind the order, Admiral."

"_Do it, ma'am_," the pilot menaced over the speakers.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm not taking orders from a shortsighted war criminal or some no-name pilot."

"_This is the pilot of Beagle 3-1, Lieuten-…_" the pilot bellowed before there was a flash. A beam pierced the mobile suit across the torso, leaving it adrift. An OZ Taurus had flanked it and fired a single, precise shot into the center torso.

"Dio salvi l'Alleanza…" the pilot shouted in his cockpit as he felt his machine breaking to pieces. He had just enough time to squeeze the trigger and send an electromagnetically-driven round into the _Africana_'s command tower, sending a hypersonic penetrator at twenty times the speed of sound through the every armored plate and bulkhead in the decks immediately below the bridge.

Arroway barely stayed in her throne; Grumman was knocked off his feet when the XO tackled him and crushed his wrist with a shoulder. Three gunshots rang out on the bridge; outside, Squadron 4 turned their beam rifles and autocannon on one another while the Taurus that had shot down Beagle 3-1 snatched the railgun, chambered a new penetrator and aimed it at the survivors.

**II**

The Alliance First Colonial Naval Hospital rose out of the edge of the Military Quarter facing Quirinal, opposite of Old Town, a rectangular, utilitarian structure emblematic of the large, modern complexes found throughout Earth Sphere, from Tokyo to Bloemfontein.

Lying medicated in a bed on the ninth floor, Walker dreamt. He dreamt of the time five years earlier, as a boy of fourteen, or perhaps a young man. Walker was an officer cadet in the Alliance Army Engineer Corps, working at Corsica's Solenzara Air Base, where the production from the Corsica Mobile Suit Works was loaded onto massive Antonov strategic airlifters—much larger than the converted-airlifters that served as airborne carriers—to be delivered to military districts throughout Eurasia, and where the prototypes for what would be adopted as OZ-07AMS 'Aries' were occasionally maintained during their Mediterranean Sea trials. It was also where he met Rachel Bishop for the first time since he left Ontario.

Rani, as she would continue to call herself, had come on an apprenticeship, much like him, though without being a cadet—she had mechanical mind with a gift for the conceptual and theoretical, a thing some engineering-types struggled with, paired with precise, nimble hands. What stood out most in his young mind was her ability to work without even occasionally her hands, a skill that usually took years to obtain and that Walker wouldn't have for another two years.

At some point, he and Rani became a _thing. _He wasn't sure what you'd call it. Probably because they were both from Windsor and had that in common, probably because of their similar ages, probably because they saw each other every day and they were just at that age.

That summer, following Rani's successful obtaining of contraband—a bottle of gin, probably French, Walker didn't remember—they gave up their chastity. Walker was fifteen, Rani fourteen. Either because of the circumstances or intervening time, it wasn't particularly memorable to him. He mostly remembered being told they were both too young, though nothing could be done about it as it was not, in fact, illegal for two minors to behave so. They were similarly 'indecent' a few more times in Corsica, their relationship a known quantity.

All the more surprising how it ended.

Rani intended to leave. She didn't give a specific reason, but it was no secret—Rani was brilliant, having passed the Advanced USCE like it was nothing, and the apprenticeship had opened doors in the civil sector well beyond being an officer cadet. Industrial mobile suit technicians and operators were in demand both on Earth and in Outer Space. It was a sensible move, and one she aggressively argued for: working for the Alliance would be dangerous. News of anti-Alliance guerillas ran every day. Leaders of the Alliance were being targeted. Even the Alliance military seemed unsure of itself, attempting to sell-off the relics of its space navy like the _Peacemillion _to obtain more funding for newer designs. It no long appeared the source for stability in all of Earth Sphere.

She wanted Walker to resign and come with her. The alternative was sitting in Corsica, waiting for opportunities that might not come. Did he really see himself as a military engineer? An officer? Or least plausible of all, a combat pilot?

_"Are you really going to spend your whole life waiting for that?"_

That's what she asked him. Walker didn't have an answer then. The day before her fifteenth birthday, Walker found her room bare: no goodbye letter, no mementoes except for a framed photograph of the two of them in their grey worksuits, something they'd owned jointly.

That was the end of it. Rachel Nina Bishop grew from a brash, grinning girl to a headstrong young woman, putting her long blond hair into a ponytail and a number of braids that she couldn't have done in the military—though as Walker occasionally ran into news of her in the local, small engineering media wherever she was, she didn't really change in his mind. He didn't change either, he felt—the same hawkish appearance, the same sharp, stern eyes.

When he woke, he found himself asking the awkward question: _Am I surprised I dreamed of her, and not Zechs? _

An OZ Space Forces military policeman—distinguishable by his white helmet, gloves and belt worn over his hunter greens—continued his patrol through the intensive care ward on that floor reserved for company-grade officers, watching a civilian nurse in an old-fashion white uniform squeeze rush past him in the hallway, avoiding eye contact. Artillery fire rang out in the distance, as the last ex-Alliance holdouts were gradually being isolated and vanquished. To Walker, now conscious, it was just quiet, muffled thumping, another strange proof of life.

Only a few kilometers away, in one of the less damaged hotels on the other side of the Military Quarter, Flight Officer Kaneshiro glanced at her mobile, dangling from a muscular wrist by a lanyard. Flight Officer Mazuri and Pilot Officer Bishop looked at her in turn.

"Didn't the flight lieutenant lose his mobile in captivity?" Ajay finally asked. Kanna responded by hitting him square in the forehead with an empty paper cup.

"Idiot, I'm not expectin' him to call. The hospital's supposed to as soon as he wakes up," she snapped at him.

"Though he's right—Walker'll need a new mobile, won't he?" Dac pointed out. "He can't just buy one off the street…"

"He absolutely can, but it'll need to get cleared by the IT guys in Signals and Communications," Mazuri corrected him.

"Were you guys always this boring?" Kanna asked, while a waitress approached their table in the hotel lobby restaurant.

"Thank you for waiting, ma'am," she said quickly before setting down a hot skillet loaded with fried meat and vegetables.

"Thanks, keep it coming!" Kanna said with a big grin jut as the waitress rushed off.

"She was in a hurry."

Mazuri shrugged. "Welcome to the Occupation—be grateful you're on this side, but it's really no fun for anyone involved."

"Besides, Kanna, isn't that your third plate? What, do you eat when you're nervous?"

"No, I eat when I'm hungry," she told Dac, immediately shoving forkfuls of hot food into her mouth.

"You're lucky it goes to your chest and arms and not your stomach," Ajay shrugged as she devoured her entrée. "Rumor has it the Second Division will take over occupation duties when a treaty is formally signed, since they're doing the mopping up anyway."

"How long is resistance going to last?"

Ajay turned to Dac. "Not long. This is a space colony, not a Pacific island or even the German countryside. Every mobile suit still in combat can be confirmed visually, and once the colony's surveillance system is up and running again, the same can be said about almost any infantryman on foot. There just aren't that many places to hide in a militarized colony."

"So why don't they surrender already?" Kanna asked after finishing her latest plate.

"Patriotism. Belief in the cause. Some of the Mormons—or I should say, troops from the Continental American Military District—might be afraid that they'll be repatriated to Utah and tied to the use of biological weapons near New Jerusalem. OZ won't hang them, but the Utahans might," Ajay speculated.

"We're lucky Septim hasn't made any broadcasts for them to resist at all cost," Dac added quickly.

"I don't know…I think D-120's residents are too..._civilized _to fall for that. Not like our ancestors," he said, gesturing at Kanna with a tilt of his head.

"Ancestors?" Dac asked. Mazuri was about to elaborate when a squadron commander still wearing his normal suit entered, followed by an adjutant in a service uniform.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I've just received word: Lieutenant General Gennaro, the commander of the Republican Guard and the provisional chief-of-staff of the Noventan Army, has spoken to Gwinter Septim III and they've unconditionally surrendered L1-D-120, meaning in this area, the war is officially over," he announced loudly.

A sigh of relief passed through the eatery, joined by some halfhearted cheering and congratulations. The restaurant staff remained quiet. "Notices will go out to your friends and families back on Earth, and to the colonies and Luna for our comrades from Outer Space, so please make sure your addresses are up-to-date sometime today. Otherwise, as you were."

A round of applause echoed, the three of them joining in. "So that's it?" Dac asked.

"For us, apparently so. Second Division'll keep up the pressure, and then there'll be a ceremony," Mazuri said, buttoning his stiff closed. "We'll probably be obligated to attend."

"I take it you're more interested in the victory party?"

"What gave you that idea?" he countered, leaning at Dac and giving a toothy smile as Pilot Officer Levinsky approached, holding a plastic tray loaded with cold refreshments. "In the meantime, here's Terentij with some victory drinks like a good lad," Mazuri said, running a hand through the other's blond hair. Levinsky shook his head free after setting down the tray.

"I just heard myself. Congratulations sirs, ma'am." He tilted his head. "Do you think they'll send Ms. Dorothy here?"

"Dorothy?" Ajay asked. "Who's Dorothy?"

"Dorothy Catalonia," Kanna explained before turning from him. "She was the Romefeller Foundation envoy in New Jerusalem, I just remembered that strange little girl. I doubt it."

"Little girl?" Dac asked.

"At least we'll probably have a break from the fighting," Levinsky told her thankfully. Kanna gave him a knowing smile and shrugged.

Mazuri stared at Kanna for a few more seconds before his eyes wandered to the ornately-decorated clock that dominated the wall over the bar and patted Dac on the shoulder. "Come on."

"Huh?"

"Misfit Actual? Walker's mobile suit?" Mazuri repeated.

"Oh, right," he said, standing up and turning to Kanna. "Walker's mobile suit is being repaired by Fortieth Independent Maintenance Battalion, they're handling all the repairs," he explained.

"Couldn't they just send it out to the _Europa _where all the spare parts are?" Levinsky asked.

"Yeah, that's what I thought too, but apparently it's so much trouble to launch them back into space after that much damage it's better to repair them on site. It's not like D-120 doesn't have all the base equipment," Dac elaborated.

"_All _our mobile suits are being repaired by the Fortieth Battalion," Mazuri elaborated. "Come on, they're waiting for us." Both men took their caps off the table and left the other two pilots behind. Through the restaurant's exit, under the large clock, Mazuri paused in mid-step.

"Ajay? Come on, man."

The elder pilot nodded and joined his comrade. "Dorothy Catalonia."

"Right, the girl Kanna mentioned, in Utah."

"She must be Duke Dermail's granddaughter. Dermail _Catalonia_."

"And?"

Mazuri looked like he had a typically rude word for Dac, but instead put his left hand on the frame of his eyeglasses and pushed them up his face, a look of unusual concern on his face. "And I just wondered if things were getting better or worse since last spring."

Levinsky watched Kanna finish her latest serving, only to pause when her own mobile went off. Spoon in her mouth and chopsticks in one hand, she fished it out of her pocket, looked at the screen, then shot up out of her chair. Levinsky awkwardly stood up as well, brushing off his uniform.

"The Flight Lieutenant's awake?" he asked as Kanna spat the chopsticks onto the bowl and snatched her hunter green tunic off the back of the chair. He took that as a confirmation.

**III**

When Kanna reached the ninth floor of First Colonial Naval, she could hear she'd been beaten there. With a good idea who was on the other side, she took a deep breath and opened the door.

"Kanna!" Walker said weakly. He was paler than normal and wore a clear green mask to supplementary oxygen over his mouth, but otherwise looked like he had back on the R.D.C., his hair in a tussled mess. In a metal chair by the bed, wearing an Alliance military greatcoat with Utahan flag sewn on the sleeves, was Major Cebotari, hair slightly messier and looking a little ragged, but otherwise exactly as Kanna recalled her.

"Major, ma'am, I'm…" she sputtered out.

Turning in her chair, Cebotari crossed her legs leisurely and put her hands together, beckoning her to continue. After a minute of uncomfortable silence, she turned back to Walker instead, who'd likewise remained silent. "As I was saying Flight Lieutenant, I think you've had a good turn of luck—we missed our chance for a proper debriefing after your escape from the Military Quarter, but it seems you've handled yourself very well. The disabling of the mobile armor launch system by itself is…very commendable," she said, beginning to drift off. The major shook her head and ran a hand through her black hair as if trying to orient herself, then continued.

"I'll convey your concerns to Squadron Commander Ogasawara, but I doubt you have anything to worry about—you've performed beyond expectations and should be congratulated, and your behavior during captivity was in keeping in the traditions of the Special Troops." She gave a tight smile that surprised Kanna. "What I'd like is for you to actually try and get some rest before you try and convince Dr. Arai you're fine. I don't think you'll be able to fool her."

Walker looked utterly dispassionate, feeling one of the bandages on his face. "Thank you, Major."

Cebotari stood up, buttoning her greatcoat and walked passed Kanna after giving her a knowing, expectant look and leaving the room.

"She's right. I'm a _very _bad liar," Walker said after the door had closed.

"So you told 'er everything?"

Walker raised his hands in exasperation, an IV running into one wrist.

"She sounded pleased, that must be a good sign, right?"

Walker looked visibly uncomfortable, either from the conversation or being spoken to in bed. "She said I was out for about twenty hours. Not a serious matter, she claims, but the last time I was out for that long, a Gundam had killed me."

Kanna cocked her head. "She's right, almost a day."

"I suspect she's a better liar than I am," Walker muttered, while Kanna took the chair and handed him a box. "What's this?"

"New mobile, to replace the one you lost."

Walker laughed, a forced, unhappy laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. "Thank you, that's…a good idea," he told her, examining the box. "No keyboard?"

"None of handsets got them anymore. Sorry."

Walker shrugged back at her. "Wherever I go, I'll probably be needing this."

Kanna rested her elbows on her knees and leaned towards him. "You're really thinkin' about it, aren't you?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"You've got a _really _obvious kind of face, _Tai-i_, remember?"

He heaved a sigh and with his right hand, pulled back his forehead, then shook his head.

"So—can you really leave the Mobile Suit Troops before you turn twenty?"

He lay back down in his bed. "If I do get a commendation, a posting at Corsica or with the Engineering Corps would be easily obtainable."

Kanna shook her head. "Tai-i…there's no way for me to say this appropriately."

"Go ahead Kanna, let me have it."

Her jaw clenched. "I got promoted to flight officer when I was nineteen. It wasn't long ago, I was with the Eighteenth Division under Chuang."

"And?"

"And that's it! I'm not a fountain a' wisdom, Walker," she said with an anxious, forced laugh. "I know you've been here for a few years…but you're still nineteen. Sure, you've had a hell of a time of it, but you're still a kid. You should do be doing this for another…ten years!"

Walker forced a smile. "I've really screwed up, Kanna."

"So you froze up. So some chick in First Recon hates you for it. Who cares? I mean, you didn't exactly have a chance with her," she told him, standing up and crossing her arms over her chest. "You know that, right?"

"It's…not that," he assured her while turning a little red. "I knew that. It's just…" he said before pausing.

"It's what?"

"I…" he began before his eyes began to close and his head tilted over. "It's just that, in light of 'Citadel' and…" he said, before trailing off.

"Tai-i!" Kanna stood up and took his shoulder, then put the mask over his mouth. He took three long, deep breaths. "Come on, deep breaths chief."

The monitoring devices showed that Walker's breathing had indeed normalized, and Kanna took the mask from him as he tried to pace himself. "What you gotta' ask yourself is—are you happy _here_?" she asked him finally.

He looked over at her with watery eyes. "How much of the city did she destroy, Kanna?"

**IV**

In Quirinal, the Defense Ministry—a large, rectangular concrete building at the far end of the Piazza della Repubblica—had been turned into OZ's field headquarters after being seized by the Seventh Division and occupied by several CAST companies that arrived once D-120's ports had been secured. An OZ-06SMS stood at each corner of the building, beam cannon raised, not without reason: less than kilometer upspin, Noventan holdouts clung to individual city blocks and part of the labyrinthine underground.

Squadron Commander Ogasawara, still in her normal suit, listened in on a briefing to given to Lieutenant Colonel Armonia, who seemed more preoccupied with the elbow brace over her right arm. Her younger sister stood attentively in the room's corner.

"Eight casualties in Fifth Company, five killed-in-action, three wounded. Thirteen casualties in Sixth Company, four killed-in-action, nine wounded. Final report from Combat Engineers Battalion—fifty-two casualties, twenty killed-in-action, thirty-two wounded."

_That's half the battalion, _Emi thought.

"Total Seventh Division mobile suit casualties: one hundred-and-one, with forty-one killed-in-action, sixty wounded." The Division Headquarters officer put his digital tablet under his arm and waited patiently until Lady Soris looked up.

"It's no surprise Second Division fared better, but the losses to the fleet are surprising, considering how easy crossing Midway was."

"It could be the Military Commissariat misjudging how many anti-ship defenses were concentrated at the final line," Luna interjected.

"Or it could just be bad luck," Soris countered, flexing her right arm slowly. The rotating hinges in her arm brace whirled softly and smoothly.

"We won't have concrete numbers until Second Division finishes with the holdouts in the next twenty hours or so, my Lady," the junior officer explained. "But Lieutenant Colonel Singh is very optimistic, even after having to split his forces to neutralize the remaining Noventan colonies."

"He must be if he's joining us personally in the field," Soris smirked.

"Not everyone has your suicidal bravado, dear sister," Luna countered very quickly. Emi eyed the other officer, who looked slightly uncomfortable.

"And what about First Recon?" Soris asked finally, changing the subject.

The officer brought his tablet back up and opened his mouth to speak when Emi cut him off. "Eight dead, twenty-two wounded. Including my third seat, Motta."

Soris turned to look at it. "How bad is it?" she asked, no trace of the prior sarcasm in her voice.

"His chute deployed at a bad angle, he fractured his ankle on landing," she explained, arms crossed.

"Give him my regards. Tell him I probably wouldn't have bailed inside a colony torus."

"Then you'd be dead, Colonel," Emi pointed out.

Soris nodded and turned back in her seat. "So we're not expecting any other _Wunderwaffe_ from the Alliance?"

"No ma'am. Luxembourg confirmed with certainty that the unit found on Earth in the Continental American M.D. was EA-00MA. The second unit, EA-01MA, is supposedly likewise not combat operational, but there is some debate as to its whereabouts. The unit we encountered, EA-01MA1, according to records here in the Defense Ministry, was the only one made operational."

"And Area 'D' industrial capacity isn't capable of reproducing it," Luna reminded them.

"Just maintaining it with parts recycled from the Alliance Space Navy," Soris confirmed. "Thank you, Flight Officer."

Saluting, the officer departed from the briefing room and Soris rose, her brace whirling. "You know who we should be asking?" she asked, turning past Emi to her sister.

"Who?" an indulgent Luna asked.

"Squadcom, how is that lovely young lady?"

Staring at the side of Lady Soris' head, Emi frowned a little. "I assume you mean Captain Soletta from the Republican Guard—if so, I don't know, I didn't ask."

"Really?" Soris' head jerked at her. "I thought you'd be more interested…"

Emi permitted her eyes to roll. "Not particularly."

"…you were the one who brought her in, along with Flight Lieutenant Walker, after all."

"I'm not."

Soris stared at him, the corner of her lip pulling up slowly. "I've been ordered to debrief Ambassador Une. If you'd like to switch with me…"

Luna cut her off quickly. "Squadron Commander, ma'am, if you'll follow me, I'll take you to the ministry's dormitories where she's being held."

"I think Walker's report might be incorrect, that _you_ people have the rage issues…" Soris began before Emi stamped a boot against the hardwood floor loudly and saluted.

"Lieutenant Colonel."

It wasn't a request, so she watched both leave and sat down against the large table behind her, smiling. By far, this was the most enjoyable briefing she'd had since 'Citadel' began.

The corridors of the Defense Ministry were filled with military police details and officers, most out of their normal suits, as Luna guided Emi around the wayward carts overloaded with binders of papers and sealed boxes bearing the U.E.S.A. coat of arms. The smaller, younger woman had an easier time negotiating the more crowded passages, where Emi was occasionally slowed down with her chest squeezed between the wall and whatever had been left in the corridor, then squeezing past a pair of military policemen moving a computer server on a hand truck after hastily saluting.

"This used to be the extraterrestrial headquarters of the Commander-in-Chief for the Alliance Space Forces, even after _Barge _was completed. There were dormitories for the staff working overnight and for students of the General Staff Academy. We're holding Captain Soletta in the west dorms for the time being."

"It was that or the P.O.W. camp in Midtown."

"Well, all the flag officers and senior commanders we found initially were placed under house arrest, out of 'civility'. There are still two general and a number of senior officers unaccounted for, but it's more likely they were injured in an evacuation zone than still with the holdouts. This way, Commander."

The two stepped into the courtyard, where a three-man CAST team was dutifully manning a four-barreled antiaircraft gun. The west dormitories were visible under a layer of snow, with a sailor shoveling snow out from in front of the doors, pausing only to stand at attention as they passed.

"Of course, the Military Commissariat already sent two officers in, a man and a woman, to interview her almost as she arrived. I ran into them while I was leaving."

"What did they look like?"

Luna turned to her, surprised by the question. "The subordinate was a young man, my age, dark hair, fair skin, quite thin. His commandeering officer was also had dark hair, but she was taller, and very…"

She paused while holding the door open. "Well-endowed?"

"Yes, ma'am. Captain Soletta's at the end of the hall," she said, gesturing at the open doors where two more MP_s _standing guard. Through them, in a small dining area with only one set of doors that weren't visibly barred with chains, were a few long unfolded tables and metal chairs. One chair was prompt up against the wall opposite of the door they'd entered through, where the room's lone occupant sat.

Luna assumed a more rigid military posture. "Captain Soletta," she announced.

To Emi's astonishment, the captain was exactly as she'd last seen her, down to the her non-regulation crimson normal suit with Republican Guard insignia sewn on the sleeves that was unzipped down to her navel. Her hair still in a mess over her shoulders and eyes, which were half-open and unmoving. Otherwise she looked as though she were sleeping.

Luna gave Emi a look. "If you're wondering, ma'am, the medics treated her injuries and bathed her, but she insisted on changing back into her normal suit."

"I can see that."

"Should I call for a medic or an MP?"

"Neither, I can handle this," Emi muttered, taking a few steps forward and grabbing a chair. She dragged it noisily to about three meters ahead of Soletta, while Luna remained by the door. Sitting backwards in it so she faced the other, she introduced herself.

"Ogasawara Emi, Squadron Commander, First Recon Battalion," she began before straightening her back. "Equal to that of a major."

"I'm familiar with OZ's rank system," Soletta muttered back, not moving. "And I know who you are, Squadron Commander."

"So you remember our earlier encounter?"

"I do."

Emi pulled some of her long hair out of the way of her left ear. "We've ascertained that your mobile armor, Chrysanthemum, was the only one of its kind in operation. In the event that certain aspects of that _technology_ were being absconded with, we surrounded the Military Quarter's naval dry dock to prevent that from happening."

"And did it?" she asked, sounding as though she knew the answer.

_Just keep engaging her. _"No," Emi admitted. "According to the report from the field, the only attempt at a breakout was a rather half-hearted attempt by an armed utility helicopter, which after a warning was shot down by our Colonial and Asteroid Strike Troops with a MANPAD. There was nothing in the wreck to suggest the technology was being evacuated, just the corpses of the pilot, first officer and a passenger."

Under her unkempt hair, Soletta seemed to look away slightly, making it harder for Emi to answer her vacant stare with her own. "And Epidendrum, the second unit?"

"What about it?"

Emi bit down on her tongue, holding back an angry retort. "Where is it? How complete was it, and if so, was it armed?" she snapped.

Soletta took her time answering, Emi's muscular shoulders visibly tensing under her crop top. "Our records have become your records, haven't they, Squadron Commander?"

"And?"

"And I don't know anything beyond what they contain. I've never seen Epidendrum. I heard that it was taken by Arroway, who salvaged it for parts and weapons for her fleet."

Contentment that the prisoner was actually answering her questions was being swiftly replaced by annoyance at the same. "So you have no idea. The Republican Guard Corps had nothing to do with Chrysanthemum's predecessor?"

"I told you what I know."

"Very, very little."

Soletta gave a very unmilitary shrug, to her annoyance. "Then what about captured equipment? D-120 fielded at least one captured Taurus mobile suit, and our source within your military industry reported it was restored with spare parts. Were these captured parts, or were they reversed engineered?"

"I don't know," Soletta repeated with no effort to hide her apathy. Angrily, Emi pushed the chair out from under her, strode over to Soletta and grabbed her by the front of her normal suit, dragging her to her feet. Underneath what she thought must have been a custom-fitted normal suit, the Colonial woman was a little shorter, more slender and less muscular than Emi, but still more physically fit than a mobile suit pilot needed to be. The same couldn't be said about all the pilots and officers that had been taken captive by OZ thus far.

"Damn it, you're a commissioned officer in uniform, start acting like one!" she snapped at her, yanking the zipper on her normal suit up and closed, then roughly yanking the hair back from the front of her face. Soletta hung there, pressed against the wall, limp like a ragdoll, staring at her through glassy, half-opened eyes. "At least make a goddamn _effort_!"

Soletta's head slowly fell back and she looked away. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"That." Both Emi and Luna strained their ears. Some faint thumping could be heard in neat, evenly-spaced intervals, the telltale sound of artillery. "There's still fighting going on, isn't there?"

"What of it? Thinking of joining them?" Emi taunted her.

"How long before peace breaks out? You must have guessed by now."

Still holding Soletta by the fabric of her normal suit, Emi glanced over her shoulder at Luna, then back. "Two, three days at most. We've already secured the presidential residence, your president _and _his grandfather."

Soletta gradually turned her head back to Emi, a strange half-smile forming on her face. Instead of exploding in anger, Emi stare directly into her blue-green eyes before loosening her grip and letting her slide awkwardly onto the floor next to her chair.

"That'll be all, Captain. Good day," she told her tersely. Soletta remained on the floor, one arm resting on the chair, as Luna approached Emi.

"Is that it, ma'am?" she whispered.

Emi spoke loud enough that Soletta could clearly hear. "She's unhinged, whether from operating that mobile armor or something else, and it's not going away easily. Walker's report said the staff called her 'brimming with hate', maybe it's boiled to the surface and we're looking at the aftermath."

Back to her, Emi didn't have to wait long before Soletta responded. "Your engineer, Walker, he's alive?"

Sticking her chest out, Emi pulled at the hem of her top to straighten out the wrinkles, then gestured at the door, which Luna obediently opened, letting Soletta watch her leave without another word.

**V**

With its ten floors, the First Colonial Hospital was not the tallest intact building it its area—that title now belonged to Vigentina Clock Tower, which stood less than two blocks away and was ringed by a number of offices, hotels and department store. Almost all had taken moderate to severe damage, but the clock tower, deemed unsuitable by the Reserve Army as a stronghold due to its vulnerability to mobile suit attack, was almost completely undamaged.

As soon as he'd been left alone after waking, Walker awkwardly disconnected himself from the monitoring devices he'd been attached to, and climbed out of bed. The first sensation was pain: the dull ache in his back, somewhere in the lumbar vertebrae he felt, was definitely real, and not just the consequence of an abnormally long period in bed. He stood immediately next to it, carefully bending his back in multiple directions—actually standing upright was somewhat comfortable to his surprise, it was the thought of lying down that sounded _more _painful. So did sitting. Putting a hand on his back, he leaned backwards as far as he could. Was that the rest of his life now? A bad back that would bother him in practically any useful posture?

Putting thata side, he dressed himself in the normal suit he'd been admitted in, took an unattended cane and left for a tower. He was spared a difficult eighteen-story climb by a service lift, as the whole tower was currently accessible to anyone in an OZ uniform.

"You don't think you should be taking it easy right now, sir?"

Ali Mazuri, wearing a white single-breasted winter field jacket rather than a double-breasted greatcoat, was standing in the shelter provided by the wide doorway to the chime floor. Walker had walked right past and only the balcony, staring out over Old Town and the Military Quarter.

He was slow to respond. "Ajay, I…" he began before quieting.

Mazuri gave him a moment before sighing and reaching for the general-issue binoculars hanging from his neck and approaching him. "Kanna said you'd leave the second you were alone, and this _is_ the best vantage point in the area."

Walker met his eyes, then took the binoculars and wrapped the strap around his wrist, still trying to manage the cold air.

Mazuri rested both arms on the guardrail before pointing at his 2 o'clock. "There was a defensive line there, anti-tank guns, heavy machine guns, et cetera, covered by a pair of Leos down that avenue. Squadron 2 pushed through what had been a hotel and flanked them while the rest of Squadron 1 kept hitting long that vector," he said, gesturing slightly to the left. "You can still see the bunkers on either side of Genova Street, right before the Opera House."

Walker's silence didn't seem to affect him. "You know, I cannot figure out how the Noventans raised that many bunkers in just a few weeks. You could tell they weren't there before, and there was barely anything about them in our intelligence." Resting his chin on left hand, he frowned. "What did they make them out of? There's no soil in a colony, there was a blockade, where did they get all the cement?"

He gave an irritated sigh, a his breath forming a visible cloud. Looking at him out of the corner of his eye, Walker finally spoke. "In the torus superstructure, there's reserves of reusable building materials, just filler standing by for emergencies. Millions of tonnes of bricks, steel, cement, everything. Every colony has it."

"Really? I had no idea."

Walker kept looking through the binoculars.

"That mobile armor certainly made a mess of things, didn't it sir?" he asked, rubbing a hand over his head. "I mean, it wasn't all her, of course. The last time I saw Suivant 2, its back was up against that opera house just past that intersection on Genova. It was covering the combat engineers who were trying to blast through a surface block and collapse that park two-hundred meters upspin where a Leo squadron was still held up. Then hostiles came with one of those solid-state laser guns, went right passed through planetary defensors. Practically cut the opera house in half, it's a miracle it's still standing."

He cocked his head. "It can't be repaired though. They'll have to tear it down, rebuild it. A hundred-year-old opera house, can't be many of those in the colonies."

No response. Mazuri brushed some of the snow that had accumulated on his shoulders. "Millions of tonnes of cement, I didn't know that. Of course you would, Flight Lieutenant Oswald Walker, always thinking of everything. Never able to turn off."

Walker looked like he had a retort, but kept it to himself. "I used to be the same way, though I suppose we all are at some point. When I first met you, as a second lieutenant in the Hundred-Fifth Independent Ground Battalion, an Alliance officer," he began, his voice starting to soften. "I was always an outsider, even back then. Now, it's natural, but back then…"

"How were you an outsider?" he asked quietly.

Mazuri had been ready, eager to explain and obviously prepared. "I was born in small town. And I don't mean that in a poetic, rock ballad kind of sense, I mean it literally. Most of the pilots in my class in the East African District including those in Nairobi weren't Kenyans. They were Ethiopians, Ugandans, with a few Angolans. My classmates who were my countrymen were all from Nairobi City." He put his hands together and smiled. "A country boy can survive. That's an American cliché, if I'm not mistaken."

"So you wer_e _an outsider even then."

He rubbed his hands together for warmth. "Of course, it was never so noticeable. There were Indian pilots from Mumbai, Yemenis from the coast, Somalians from Mogadishu who didn't want just want to be more sailors in the Alliance Navy for whatever reason. As much outsiders as I was. And then there were the real outsiders—junior officers with Chilean mothers and Mongolian fathers, who never lived in either country, who came to the East African M.D. for reasons no one else would never know or understand. Who'd live their whole lives as outsiders no matter where they were. They'd survive too, of course. It's a small world nowadays."

There was the echo of artillery in the distance, somewhere out of sight.

"I was just a lad who wasn't keen on becoming a professional farmer or agricultural technician in the world's breadbasket. In some way, I must have liked being an outsider, being different but not too different for its own sake. And here I am now, three hundred thousand kilometers above Earth, in a giant, metal doughnut. I was prepared to have people shooting at me, even people in the same uniform shooting at me. But never in a giant metal doughnut."

After that, Mazuri resolved to remain silent until Walker was compelled to speak again. It didn't take long.

"It's the nature of the careers we've chosen."

"Isn't it though?" he replied in agreement. "The fundamentals of professionalism. We're not warriors, we're specialists—it's in our name, well, _your _name. So it appears being an outsider is part of that."

"It appears so."

Mazuri looked at Walker directly. It was self-evident where the conversation was going, and he'd hope that Walker would take the next step. When he didn't after a few more seconds, Mazuri took the lead.

"So, you're considering leaving the Mobile Suit Troops," he began quickly, before raising a hand to preemptively silence Walker. He was committed either way. "You're up here on the eighteenth floor, you've witnessed the destruction you wrought—that you take responsibility for, anyway, even if you didn't cause it—and rather than mope around in your self-pity, have resolved to do something about it. Or at least, that's how you perceive it in your mind, which since you're only human, is as close to an objective truth as you'll ever find."

Walker lowered the binoculars and looked at Mazuri, surprise replaced by distant, impartial acknowledgement.

Mazuri sighed and rubbed his face. "I don't know. Maybe you should, sir. A day hasn't gone by since 19 May when I haven't asked myself I made the right decision. If I don't just misunderstand what glory and honor really are, or if I'm just pretending I care about either. And the thing is, I really don't care that much about the constitution or old men I've never met dying because a Gundam cut their aircraft in half. I don't really care about switching flags and uniforms, whether it's because I'm too busy being shot at by people who might not care about them either, or because I'm not paid to worry about such things, as far as I know. I'm not a nihilist, I just don't have those kind of convictions. And to be honest, I'm not sure what's worse."

Walker gave him an odd look, which Mazuri had expected. It was the most open the ex-Alliance ace had been with him in the half-year they'd known each other. "And you're saying…"

"You have convictions. Say what you will about yourself, sir, but you've got them. Not only do you have them, they've become part of your DNA. It's why you never turn off. Flight Lieutenant, sir, Oswald…don't let anyone second-guess you. You already have it hard enough if you can never turn off. If seeing this confirms what you thought, than you're right—the Mobile Suit Troops aren't a place for you. You're a survivor, and you'll hate yourself for it. Maybe tomorrow, maybe in a year when we're trying to keep Gundams from flattening cities or blowing up colonies, or whatever we're doing. I wouldn't blame you for not wanting to be on the frontlines, no sane person should. And if you've earned a way out, wy not take it?" he asked, practically whispering towards the end.

He put his hands on the guardrail and sighed again. "Please don't tell Kanna I told you this. I really don't want to get my ass kicked by a giant Okinawan."

"I won't. Though I am surprised to hear this coming from you," he admitted.

"It's not just you. Circumstances have made a young Ontarian I have absolutely nothing in common with my best friend in the world. I don't tell him much either," he explained, some regret in his voice. "I've made a life for myself evading what you might call 'the truth' and I've gotten good at it. That means at some point I became A. K. Mazuri, Mobile Suit Ace—and nothing else."

"Then what changed?"

"What changed?" he repeated. "What changed, what changed? I don't know. I guess seeing you here, at the top of this clock tower, confirmed what I thought might be the worst case scenario. That you can't turn off, you can't close your eyes. And I can only speculate about just how much that's costing you."

Walker took his cold, red hands off the rail and put them in his pockets. "Maybe when I joined the MS Troops, I should have done what you did."

"I won't say it's not the coward's way out. I don't like doing the ethical introspection dance more than anyone else either. But it's how I've carried on." He looked upwards at the artificial sky, the occasional scorch mark or damaged plating visible through the clouds. "Ajay Mazuri, the Black Knight. Ajay Mazuri, charm machine. Ajay Mazuri, ex-Alliance Playboy."

To his surprise, Walker laughed abruptly, and he felt himself relax a little. "You have, or had, quite the reputation. It's fairly unique among us, or even the Alliance military as a whole."

"Why do you think I picked it? I want to be owed franchise rights in the long run," he said, elbowing Walker. "The parties, sex and companionship are all just side-perks."

"You seem to enjoy the parties—or is that all part of the masquerade that is Flight Officer Mazuri?"

"No, I enjoy those. If there's any truth in my life, the pursuit of good times and fun is it. It may be the only thing Davy-boy and I have in common, sad as it sounds. Our friendship might just be an excuse for the two of us to drink together."

"It's better than drinking alone," Walker repeated. "Another American cliché."

"Well, it certainly applies to me."

"And the sex?"

Mazuri barely suppressed a laugh, holding his hands in front of himself defensively. "Not nearly as much as you might think, sir. But there's no greater meaning behind that either—I just enjoy physical contact. It reminds me that I am human and breaks up the monotony of life." As he finished, his face turned somber, only to crack a smile. "That woman from First Recon who enjoyed making you so miserable, sir, not the tall one, the shorter one—Tsujimoto. We never did it."

"Really?" Walker asked, sounding not entirely convinced.

"Really. It wasn't cultural or anything—I've known more foreigners than my own countrywomen in my dalliances, but we just never did. Maybe it was just a bad time for a rendezvous, or maybe I wasn't good enough, or whatever, but we never did." He cocked his head. "Everyone _thought _we did, and I suppose that was good enough."

Another echo, this one of the distant explosion of a large military vehicle. The neighborhood remained secure enough that CAST and Space Forces Naval Infantry alike could ride atop their armored vehicles, weapons in hand, as they left nearby motor pool. The two watched them from the balcony.

"Make this decision for yourself—no one else. You're the only one who'll condemn your actions, after all, so you might as well _act_," Mazuri said as the last armored vehicle in the procession departed.

Walker nodded, resting on the guardrail. "You may be right. Thank you for that, Ajay."

"If it's the last thing we have say to one another, it might as well be meaningful. Aside from giving me an education in mobile suits, which I do appreciate."

Walker glanced at him, put a hand on his epaulet, then headed for the doorway.

**VI**

"The Armstice is planned for the Twenty-Second of September, at the request of the Quirinal Palace."

In the briefing room of the _Sarajevo_, Lieutenant Colonel North listened to a newly-arrived naval lieutenant, a well-dressed though not unnecessarily-prim-looking young man with broad shoulders and a smart haircut. He cut a much better, more impressive figure than North's thin build combined with his tired posture.

"That soon?"

"Yes sir. According to the Military Commissariat, the President's Office has genuine concerns that waiting any longer might lead to a military revolt of some kind. Apparently, there are quite a few ranking generals and flag officers still present on D-120, sir."

"Just like in all the news reports," North observed. The _Sarajevo_, CV-106, was one of the four _Belgrade-_class light carriers brought up from the reserves to intercept the so-called Arroway Fleet, and accepted to have the most experienced crew, served as the provisional command ship in the absence of any genuine, full-sized mobile suit carriers. "It'll be up to the forces in D-12 to force a ceasefire before that. Treize…His Excellency Colonel Khushrenada…won't be able to make it in that little time."

"Really sir?"

North regretted that. He'd given the officer the impression that he was more personally acquainted with Treize Khushrenada than he actually was. He'd known Treize long before his ascendance to head of the Specials Troops, and kept in touch—nothing more.

"Nowadays, all the brass just use holograms for anything that isn't a press conference scheduled four months in advanced anyway," North assured him as the door opened and a sub-lieutenant entered, standing at attention before North gestured at him.

"Sir, this just came in from L1-D-120, via the _Europa_."

"Thank you," he said, taking a sheet of paper emblazoned with the insignia of the OZ Space Forces at the top, a very typical-looking military memo. Resisting the urge to ignore it, North scanned it quickly before folding it in half against the nearby table and, to the other officer's surprise, tearing it in half. He took one half and then handed the other half to the officer. "Could you read the last paragraph, please?"

The officer, looking briefly confused, immediately obliged. "Flight Lieutenant O. Walker, of the Seventh Division's First Company Squadron, Squadron 1, was shot down during the Battle of D-120, inside the colony torus in the vicinity of the Military District. He is confirmed to be alive and in stable condition, receiving noncritical treatment."

The lieutenant didn't realize North had been holding his breath until he exhaled slowly and deeply. "Thank you, Lieutenant," he said, the scrap of paper returned to him. "After all of this, I didn't want to risk hallucinating that."

"I…see, sir. It's very good news, I take it?"

"It's excellent news. For me almost as much as him," North said, his posture more relaxed. "Between you and I, Lieutenant, I made some very stupid mistakes that endangered the life of a good officer, and in spite of everything in the intervening time, he seems to be unharmed."

"I'm…very pleased for you, Colonel."

North raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, did you have something else, some finding out of L4?"

"Yes sir—just a report from our peacekeeping forces at BACD space in L4, it went to the General Staff in _Barge_, and it came in during Arroway's infighting. Amid the usual 'probing' flights from the Winner Corporation colonies, they thought they encountered a hostile mobile suit on a different attack vector. That in of itself isn't unusual, since the Winner Corporation has access to a fleet of Space Leo mobile suits left behind by the Alliance, but it seemed to have some sort of unexpected radar-defeating qualities. A sensor scan couldn't confirm that it _was_ a Leo, only that it moved like a mobile suit for a few seconds before it fled."

The lieutenant looked up from his report to find North resting his hand against his forehead. The lieutenant colonel was replaying the events of just a few hours earlier—after a Pioneer Leo armed with the largest railgun North had ever seen carried by a mobile suit fired on the _Africana_. The penetrator passed cleanly through the armored shutters of the deck immediately below the bridge, with enough force to warp and rip the bulkheads between the two decks. The results were catastrophic: explosive decompression dragged out the crew and officers on the lower deck in a matter of seconds, and as the floor beneath them gave way, Grumman was pulled after them, discharging his firearm. Multiple offers, Arroway included, followed him as the decompression continued. The shutters on the bridge itself were useless in preventing a breach on the deck below, and the penetrator had ruined the scaffolding separating the decks. Grumman managed to grab ahold of part of the scaffolding until an unfortunate MP who'd moved to detain him earlier was thrown against him, and both were blown out into vacuum.

"_Close the bulkheads!_" Arroway's XO ordered. He hadn't realized that the deck shutters were secured closed, and that a hole 2 meters wide and growing had been blown _beneath _them. Flipping her helmet down, Arroway held onto part of the scaffolding for her life, as a sailor further to the back of the bridge reached out for her. Two other officers lost their grip and flew out. The XO grabbed a safety line, took the hand of the sailor, and forced him at Arroway, who managed to get a grip on him and be reeled towards the rear of the bridge.

"_Abandon the bridge, activate the reserve!_" she ordered through her radio.

"_Yes ma'am!_"

Atmosphere kept bleeding out of the _Africana _through that particular wound for several minutes longer, as both OZ and the majority of the fleet began targeting the minority of ships that were breaking from formation—deemed a sign of revolt. Two _Iowa-_class battleships, the _Omaha _and the _California_, were immediately barraged by both fleets and targeted my mobile suits, while the _Haiphong _anti-mobile suit destroyer was swiftly rammed by the much larger _Ganymede_, splitting along the keel and bursting into a fireball. Within ten minutes of Beagle 3-1's attack on the _Africana_, all rogue warships had been neutralized by the most obvious means possible.

Counter Admiral Arroway, still wearing a normal suit, likewise replayed the events of barely a day earlier in her head as she sat in a much more modestly-designed officer's seat in the _Africana'_s reserve bridge. A pair of CAST noncommissioned officers with machine pistols, flanked her, mostly for show.

"Admiral, ma'am, two-hundred seconds to the next burn," an officer at the navigator's station announced, the large screen ahead of him indicating the next necessary course correction to keep them in formation with the combined fleet. Having taken control of all ships, North's forces had set their course for a planned fleet rendezvous in vicinity of MO-II.

"How long till the resource satellite?" her XO asked.

"ETA at MO-II is seventeen hours, fifty minutes, sir."

"I won't be there," she muttered, chin resting against her hand. It was plainly evident why—as a member of the Republic of Noventa's cabinet, she would be returning with North to L1-D-120.

"We'll see to the fleet, ma'am," he explained.

A useless sentiment, but she appreciated it nonetheless and smiled at him. "Good. My military career is officially over."

**VII**

In a freshly-pressed service uniform, Walker was standing in the improvised office of the 7th Division's Communications Battalion, inside the Noventan General Staff building on the edges of Quirinal, watching a flight officer—a so-called 'IT guy'—taking his new mobile out of the box, opening the plastic, and running through the mandated security checks to make it operational.

The flight officer currently had the new device sitting on part of his desk immediately in front of a much larger scanning apparatus the size of a loaf of bread and wired to a portable computer. "All right, sir, it's showing up clean. Next ship or fortress you're on, they'll run the usual scan to confirm it," he said, reaching into a pocket and taking out a sheet of small stickers each bearing a unique number and the OZ Space Forces insignia. He removed the mobile's back panel, removed the battery, and stuck the sticker onto the area normally hidden by it, before restoring the mobile to working order and holding down on the power key.

"Did you have any questions, sir?" he asked as it booted up.

"Can I install digital reader software on this?"

"Absolutely. I don't know anyone in the military who still has a purpose-built e-reader, the software's all free now. That's an N830, they only came out back in June, very nice phone. _Great _cameras. You can run all the best software on it." The officer glanced away to write down the number from the sticker into a nearby notebook. "What happened to your old one?"

"Destroyed," Walker lied. "I think it was a N.A. Robotics Scene Pro."

"North American makes good mobiles, but in my opinion sir, you need to go with Nokianvirta or Seongbuk. I mean, we don't have to pay for ours, but even still, you're basically a hundred-percent luxury tax with a North American."

"Baby's first mobile," another flight officer at the desk behind him muttered.

The IT guy quickly said something in Russian that Walker didn't catch before looking back. "Ignore my sarcastic comrade, sir. No one who isn't enrolled in a west coast university buys North American desktops anymore, but their mobiles are popular for a reason," he assured him.

_These guys are too techie even for me_, Walker thought, much of the conversation going over his head as the IT guy handed the mobile back to him, then the cardboard box it had come in. "So it'll work immediately?"

"Family to call, sir?" he guessed knowingly.

"Walker? Walker, over here!"

Turning, he saw an officer in his hunter greens approaching him from down the hall—his face wasn't familiar until the smiling face with a long scar running up one side came into view.

"Dmitry!" he shouted with a smile, waving with his free hand. Flight Lieutenant Chernenko came running up and quickly embraced the other, smacking his shoulders happily. "Watch the back, watch the back!"

"Kanna told me you made it back, I've been looking for you! Where have you been?"

"I'd ask you the same," Walker said when he released him. "I didn't see you before we launched from the _Europa_…"

"A few days ago? Tactical nuclear weapons training. They had me lobbing MIRV_s _at the Noventan Fleet," Chernenko explained as both men walked down the hallway. "Well, one anyway. Where are you heading, I'll give you a ride—I scored a four-wheel drive jeep from the Utahans, it actually works in the cold."

Walker was slow to answer. "I'm not sure."

As he promised, Chernenko had a 4WD general purpose vehicle painted in Alliance olive-drab waiting outside the General Staff Building. After both men climbed aboard and Chernenko began driving through the largely empty, largely undamaged streets, he turned back to Walker. "Whatever happened to your motorcycle?"

"Still in storage. I couldn't use it on _Barge_, after all."

"Of course. And fortunately for you, we don't have to pull occupation duty," Chernenko reminded him as the jeep skidded on an icy patch. He seemed to have no problem negotiating the conditions whatsoever.

Walker didn't respond. His gaze was fixed to the view out of his window, as they patched along the vaguely-defined border between Quirinale and Old Town, where intact buildings gave way to row after row of ruined, demolished blocks that vanished into bleak, depressing darkness in the absence of working streetlamps. "Walker, are you all right?'

"Just tired."

Chernenko stared at the back of his head, unconvinced, before stopping at an intersection. "Well, you had a hell of a time here. Isn't this near where you were held?"

"On the other side of the neighborhood, yes."

"Well, it's over now, at least," Chernenko muttered, waiting for the light to change. "You know, if you'd like to talk about it…"

He looked back at Walker, who was still staring away, out the window.

Chernenko sighed and struck his fist against the dashboard, and ahead of them, the audible hooting and laughing of voices could be heard coming closer and closer, as an eight-wheeled armored personnel carrier with a turret housing an autocannon rolled by, seven people riding on its roof. Four of them were CAST in their armored space suits, while the remaining three were Mobile Suit Troops officers, two in violet normal suits and one in his hunter greens with a field jacket on. All seven were laughing and cheering.

Chernenko climbed out of his seat and sat in the open car window port, calling to them as they passed slowly. "Hey, comrades, what's going on?"

"Flight Lieutenant! Didn't you hear?"

"No, that's why I'm asking you, friend!"

One of the officers pushed her colleague out of the way. "The remaining Noventan colonies have capitulated and the holdouts have surrendered! The ceasefire's gone into effect! The war's over!" She exchanged a high-five with the other pilot and hugged the CAST sitting next to her, who was brandishing his carbine in a celebratory manner.

Chernenko smacked the folded roof of his car, laughed, and cheered "_Nazdrovia!_" before sliding back into his seat and throwing an arm over an unexpected Walker. "Did you hear that? We need to get to the barracks!"

"Hear what?" he asked, genuinely confused.

"The ceasefire's taken effect! The war against the Alliance, it's finally over!"

_In Outer Space maybe…_ "The barracks?"

"The headquarters of the Republican Guard Corps, that's where they're keeping the Seventh Division for the time being, about two kilometers downspin. We've got to celebrate!"

"I don't know if I'm really…" Walker began before Chernenko caught him off by pounding the accelerator.

"No excuse, Walker. Whatever's wrong with you, you're not missing a victory party. _That _would not be acceptable, even if I have to drag you there myself."

The nearest headquarters of the Republican Guard Corps, formerly belonging to the First Central Division, had already taken on a celebratory atmosphere, with CAST commandos climbing the radio and sensor masts, singing and shouting, while the division's supply and medical company had begun firing off consumer-grade fireworks—bright enough to be seen when they went over the nearby ruins or neighborhoods devoid of electricity. Chernenko hastily parked behind an abandoned Type 66 howitzer that was being investigated by a number of officers wearing intelligence company patches on their sleeves. Just as he and Walker exited, one officer emerged from an open turret holding an undamaged Alliance flag, which he unfurled to the delight of his colleagues.

"_Banzai!_" one cheered out. The others repeated it in unison.

"Banzai!" Chernenko shouted convincingly, exchanging hugs with the officer holding the flag as climbed off the vehicle and dragging Walker onwards towards the officer's barracks, easily the most visible, lit-up building in the vicinity.

"Walker, how long have we known each other?"

"Four years? Since Lake Victoria, at least."

Chernenko nodded as he pulled Walker along. "In those four years, I've known you to be _zipsuvaty_, a spoilsport. But I know, deep down, you have an eye for beautiful pilots, and as a former-Special Recon man myself, I know one or two," he told him sarcastically.

"Why _did _you leave the First Recon Battalion?" Walker asked. Chernenko abruptly gave him scornful look before dragging him around a corner, into the lobby. The sounds of celebration interspersed with music and laughter had overtaken everything else, though the lobby was largely empty except for two flight officers necking and groping one another in the corner by the entrance to the cafeteria.

"If you must know, _Mister Khlopotun_, I wanted to live a long, healthy life and I didn't think that position was conducive to it at the time."

"Is that really the case?" Walker asked, pulling off his jacket and pulling on the tail and hem of his hunter green tunic.

Chernenko threw an arm over his shoulder and put his face close to his. "If I'm hearing correctly, I think I know who we'll be running into through those doors, and because we are such good friends and comrades, Oswald Walker, I'm going to tell you some things that maybe, _just maybe_, will help you get revenge on those girls who keep teasing you."

"Oh, I always enjoy revenge," Walker said, in that neutral, inexpressively straightforward tone of voice he was known by.

"That's my man," Chernenko announced, squeezing his shoulder before glancing backwards and spotting someone another pair of officers entering the lobby though the swinging doors, and pulling off their coats. "_Pomyani chorta…_" he muttered.

"I didn't get that one, Dmitry. 'Pomyani..'?"

Chernenko strode forward, pushing Walker with him. "It means 'Speak of the devil…', as in 'Speak of the devil, and there she is,'" he explained.

"There who is?" Walker asked, his voice immediately drowned out by the crowd. The two were immediately absorbed by a crowd of at least forty officers crowding by the entrance to the cafeteria, with more than twice that number further into the dining area and by the kitchen. The 7th Division's combat troops were interspersed with members of the Intelligence Company, Communications and Engineering Battalion, and even officers from the division headquarters, each of the later groups only distinguishable by their occasionally-visible sleeve insignia. Towards the front, a few members of the First Recon Battalion could be made out by their unique red sleeve patches. Many still had visible injuries and a few wobbled about on crutches. Even then, at least one young woman on crutches was being pushed towards the pair of tables that had been pushed together into an improvised stage on the far wall. A short but rather long-legged and busty junior enlisted woman, with short, blood-red hair and wearing half a CAST space suit, was reluctantly forced onto the stage, where Flight Officer Tsujimoto stood, brandishing a microphone like a club.

The CAST woman hobbled about on her crutch before someone yanked it away from her, and she was left balancing on one leg rather effortlessly, and the crowd laughed.

"Nice try, Carver," she teased the shorter woman.

"Shut up, Nabiki," the other retorted, crossing her arms over her undershirt-clad chest. "Why am I up here again? Any soldier who sings karaoke looks like an _idiot_."

"Whereas pretty girls who sing look lovely," Nabiki teased her.

"Hey Tsujimoto, sing _the_ song!" someone by the stage shouted.

"Yeah!" another shouted. "Come on, everyone wants to hear it!"

"You people are _so _predictable it's not even funny," Nabiki replied, while Carver groaned upon being handed a microphone. "Okay, you win, but I'm not doing this request for free."

A round of laughter and applause came from the audience while Nabiki pointed to the end of the table—next to it, a fold chair had been set up next to a small desk overloading with drinks and an electronic piano hooked up to a stack of haphazardly-stacked speakers. "Key of 'C' major please, David."

Nabiki turned in time to see, standing by the folding chair, not David Bishop but a dazed looking Walker next to Chernenko, who was waving with both arms as though it was the only way she'd notice them at the head of the crowd. She kept her stare on Walker, whose expression seemed to suggest he was at least as surprised as she was, went _tsk _shortly and turned away. Walker looked at Chernenko who effortlessly pushed him into the folding chair and put his hands on the keyboard, before he began the rest himself, playing slowly and softly. The chatter of the audience, who hadn't noticed Walker, died slowly as Nabiki began with the first verse.

_"You entered the academy,  
>When you had nothing else left to do.<br>Your cap strategically tipped below one eye,  
>Watch your reflection in polished shoes.<br>You had your pick of the pilots,  
>And no-one else got to choose.<br>And all the girls dreamed that they'd be your wingmate,  
>They'd be your wingmate, and…"<em>

Carver, who'd been singing just barely loudly enough to be heard next to Nabiki, gave a yelp when the later squeezed her chest with her left hand and pulled her close, before she relented and began singing in harmony with her. Walker's keyboard rose swiftly in volume with the chorus.

_"You're so vain, you probably think this song is about you.  
>You're so vain, I bet you think this song is about you,<br>Don't you? Don't you?_"

Tsujimoto released Carver's chest and raised her hand for dramatic flourish.

_"Well, you had me a few years ago,  
>When I was still quite naïve.<br>When you said that we made such a handsome pair,  
>And that you would never leave.<br>But you only want what you didn't have,  
>And what you had was me.<br>I had my dreams, they were not in the army  
>Not in the army, and…"<em>

_"You're so vain, you probably think this song is about you.  
>You're so vain, you're so vain, I'll bet you think this song is about you,<br>Don't you? Don't you?"_

With deliberate slowness, two more officers had crept to the front rows, largely unnoticed until Nabiki pointed a single long finger at one of them. Ogasawara smiled back curtly, a hand on her hip, while standing next to her, Lady Soris shoved her towards the stage, laughing hysterically. The other recon pilots cheered loud enough to briefly mask Walker's piano-playing, as Emi reluctantly took a microphone and climbed up onto the stage. Standing in order of height, the three women took a moment to harmonize before beginning the last verse.

_"You watched war from castles in Germany,  
>Where your side naturally won.<br>Then you took a shuttle to Marius City,  
>To see the hardware eclipse out the sun.<br>Well, you're where you should be all the time  
>And when you're not, you're with some crown princesses<br>Or the wife of a marquis,  
>Wife of a marquis, and…"<em>

By then, Walker had joined in, singing with Chernenko as both men rocked back and forth with the crowd.

_"You're so vain, you probably think this song is about you  
>You're so vain, you're so vain, I'll bet you think this song is about you<br>Don't you, Don't you?"_

Repeating the chorus once more, Nabiki snatched the other two women by the hand the three shared a bow to a roaring audience, complete with the strike troopers shaking their helmets over their heads in approval. After a few other officer shook Walker's hand affectionately, Chernenko picked him up from his chair by the shoulders and hugged him approvingly.

"You haven't lost your touch, Osvaldovych!" he laughed. "Not as good as me, of course, but not all us come from the country that gave us the world the most successful military musical ensemble," he taunted him.

Walker batted at Chernenko's cap, pulling it over his eyes. "Oh, say that again, you Red Army…"

"Walker! Flight Lieutenant!" The two turned to see Bishop and Mazuri forcing their way to them, arm over each other's shoulder and a bottle of gushing champagne in Dac's right hand.

"Ajay, Dac!"

"When Dac said _you_ were covering him, I wouldn't have believed it," Ajay said, holding back laughter. "Not in the least."

"Well, stranger things have happened. Where's Kanna? She should be here," Walker asked.

"I don't know, I haven't seen her, though we did bump into Levinsky."

Mazuri snorted. "I'm sure _he's _just hiding from a certain pilot's affections, now that she's getting off the stage."

"I'm sure Kanna's here somewhere, no way she'd miss this party," Dac pointed out.

"For once, my stupider half here is correct," Mazuri interjected, snatching the bottle from Dac and taking a deep drink from it, to the latter's aggravation. The two fought over the bottle, while Chernenko gestured back to the stage.

"Don't forget to rub this in Tsujimoto's face at every opportunity. I better go speak to my old boss."

"What for?"

He shrugged. "Compliment her for being at the top of her form. Or maybe just looking so good on stage with her chest stuffed into that black crop top," said with a wink before clambering up the table. Walker stood alone, back against the electronic piano, a smiling creeping across his face as he thought about Nabiki. Another bottle of champagne appeared in front of him and, permitting a full smile, he took it and took a deep swallow.

"_Gah_!" He never liked champagne, in truth, and was going to share the fact when he turned to see who'd offered him the bottle.

"First an artist, now a musician? What next?" Kanna's smiling face grinned at him from on high as he took another drink, with some difficultly.

"It's nothing. Easy song, anyone who can read sheet music can play it, yourself included," he explained after wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"More modesty?"

"Not modesty. I'm a much better artist than I am a musician, possibly because musical talent never actually helped me professionally," he pointed out.

"So then, what are you smiling about?" she asked coyly.

After a pause, he handed her back the bottle. "A very good person I know asked me if I was happy or not."

She took the bottle back and took a much deeper swing from it effortlessly. "And?"

"And I'm not really certain," he admitted.

"'Not really certain'," she asked, raising an eyebrow. "What does that mean, translated from Walker?"

"All right, no you're not being entirely fair," he defended himself, before someone jumped off the table behind him and threw their arms over him.

"So, a little Ukrainian bird told me you were having some fun at my expense," Nabiki said, sweetly and mischievously, over his shoulder having caught him by surprise.

"I really don't know what you're talking about, _Miss _Tsujimoto."

"Is that so, _Flight Lieutenant _Walker?" she jeered. "Well, I think I'm going to return the favor," she announced before spinning around him deftly but keeping a hand on his right arm. She then gave him a yank, almost enough to knock him off his feet, and pulled him away.

"No, really, I'm not w-..." he began before turning to Kanna, who was emptying the remainder of the bottle. By the time she'd finished, he was already gone, so she glanced at the black and silver label on the green bottle, a small U.E.S.A. coat of arms printed on it in gold ink.

"Well, they might not fight worth a damn, but the Republican Guard knows how to have a party," she muttered to herself before hiccuping once.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_Hope you have a copy of Carly Simon handy for this chapter. Will anyone know that song in 300 years? Probably as many as who know songs by Toto, perhaps. At least the subject of this song is probably much more apparent than Carly Simon's original subject, at least I hope so. I guess I can permit myself two musical numbers between almost a half-million words. Would you believe I really dislike musicals for the most part? Perhaps, though I doubt it comes as any surprise that I've long been a fan of the Red Army Choir, to whom Chernenko refers to in "his country." Does the Alexandrov Musical Ensemble still exist three hundred years in the future? I believe yes, though I expect its name has changed more than a few times._

_Two things about this chapter: first, it came out on schedule, and second, it was extremely lacking in action. Goodness willing, "heavy on character development," meaningful even. Still, it was easy write compared to the last, and I still cut out two scenes that will appear in the next chapter. I'm slightly annoyed by the day-to-day pacing of this (it's one of the reasons I'm a half-million words in, that's a my crime), and I do intend to move away from that, but Chapter 50 did leave a few things unanswered, namely, the status of Helena Arroway and her fleet, which has been resolved...mostly. _

_As always, read and review, and let me know what you think. Hopefully this chapter added some much needed depth into A. K. Mazuri. On the other hand, I hope I'm not granting Walker any sort of undeserved abilities or powers...by the time I was Walker's age, I'd played coming on 15 years of piano against my will, something I still resent more than a little (it really is the worst instrument someone can learn, I stand by that). I suspect that hasn't kept me from butchering some of the technical details, but oh well, I'll catch it in editing I hope. And at least we got to see Walker smile for once. _


	52. The Gundam Called Zero

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 52 – The Gundam Called Zero **

In the year After Colony 175, Heero Yuy, the leader of the radical Colonial Liberation movement in Outer Space, was assassinated. Five weapons of war, Gundams, were sent to Earth to take revenge, as part of Operation 'Meteor'. In the intervening twenty years, however, the men who had drafted Operation 'M' had neglected to consider the possibility of a new political climate, as had the Gundam pilots themselves.

The year is After Colony 195—OZ has extinguished the flames of the Alliance military in Outer Space. As OZ assumed the human and monetary cost of liberating them from that period of tyranny, the Colonies elected to coexist with Earth, rather than remain hostile. With the blessing of Luxembourg, many space colonies assumed the political status of independent states, and armed themselves in the interests of security and political stability. The Gundams, beholden to no one, were rejected as rogue elements, threats to the new age of peace.

The _Regulus_, a merchant ship belonging to Wincomfleet, was taking on mundane cargo—fresh water and foodstuffs—from an orbiting storehouse on the edges of the Fourth Lagrange Point, to be delivered to a resource satellite in L2. The vessel's commander much preferred large quantities of mundane cargo to the small quantities of highly sensitive, and almost certain illegal, materiel they'd been ordered to deliver in the previous weeks.

"Skipper, mind taking a look at this?" a crewman asked, presenting him with a clipboard.

"Not at all. Whatever it takes to keep corporate for giving us anything else in small, secure crates we can't open," he replied quickly, signing the page after barely looking at it.

The crewman nodded and took the clipboard back, floating down the stairs out of the bridge. The skipper reached into his baggy uniform, took out a cigar case, and withdrew an expensive cigar imported from Earth, one of the new luxuries now available with the ending of the blockade. He was appreciating its aroma when a crew station beeped twice.

"What was that?"

The sensor officer turned back to his station and stared at his monitor intently. "Nothing, Skipper."

"Excuse me?"

"Literally nothing. Something was pinged on the sensors but…it's not there anymore. I'm running directed sensor sweeps, but nothing's coming up." He looked forward through the large windows at the front of the bridge. "There's nothing out there sir."

"Maybe a micrometeoroid?" another crewman suggested.

"Whatever it was, it's not there anymore."

"Where _was _it?" the skipper asked.

"Directly at our twelve. No closer than two-hundred kilometers."

Still holding his cigar, the Skipper walked directly to the viewports and squinted: nothing but a few stars and a neighboring colony many times that distance away.

"I'll run a diagnostic test," the sensor officer announced.

"No, don't bother, it's probably just old data or…" the skipper began before a twinkling light silenced him. As he focused in its direction, the twinkle abruptly grew into a blinding cascade of light that illuminated the dim bridge.

The _Regulus _was bathed in a massive torrent of charged particles, wider than the ship itself, just before it melted and exploded in burst indistinguishable from the particle wave. The beam lasted a few seconds longer before dissipating, leaving nothing behind other than a few cinders and tiny, crystalized shards.

**II**

Lieutenant Colonel North arrived at L1-D-120 by means of courier shuttle, three days after the ceasefire had gone into effect, where a military motorcade was waiting to take him to Defense Ministry.

"No helicopter?" he asked the officer leading the motorcade.

"All the operational transport helicopters were shot down during the fighting, sir."

"Every last one?" North asked incredulously. The officer wasn't joking.

North took the opportunity to evaluate the level of urban destruction—rather varying, he found, based on locality. In particular, entire blocks in the Military Quarter and Old Town were completely leveled, and there were several gaping maws left in the street, where whole city blocks had collapsed into the torus superstructure, including one particularly massive one.

"Not as cold as I was led to believe," he asked as the armored car they rode splashed through a deep puddle of melted snow in a crater in the street.

"We've gotten the weather under control—some unscheduled rain, but nothing out of the ordinary, sir."

"Just like the two-hundred thousand years of _homo sapiens_," he said, before reaching over and pointing into the distance. "Is that where the mobile armor emerged?"

"Yes sir."

"Christ." He rubbed his forehead—the reconstruction costs were going to be astronomic. "Where is it now?"

"They're moving it out of the open, back into the military dock, sir. It's…taking time."

The Defense Ministry's neighborhood in Quirinale City, near the presidential residence, was in substantially better condition as neat lines of officers and soldiers began filing into the complex—North identified them as belonging different companies of the Second Aerospace Division. The whole event had a clear, unmistakable feeling of the formation of a garrison. North had witnessed the same occurrence on Earth more than once, before his reassignment to_ Barge_.

"We're ahead of schedule, if you'll believe it," Lieutenant Colonel Singh explained. "When those naval infantry battalions arrive with CAST leaving, we'll have sixty thousand men for the garrison. The General Staff has ruled that acceptable for a colony…"

"For a colony of one and a half million," he muttered.

"Normal population was closer to two million. When the refugees and expatriates return, well, by then things should have settled down anyway. If they haven't, well, I doubt we'll have to call back the Seventh. I don't think two million Noventans are a match for full mobile suit division."

North nodded. "Where did you say the division's personnel was housed, in this district…?"

"Two kilometers downspin, the former Republican Guards Base," Singh explained. "They've already started packing up…" he began.

"I saw the order. Return to Earth, Western European Military District for evaluation and reorganization."

The older officer glanced at him. "To be frank, I thought you'd be happier. You get to go home, to Earth. I'm more than a little envious."

"You do know this is my last campaign?"

"My God, are you really going to go through with it? Stubborn, aren't you?" When Singh turned to him, North had already climbed into an unattended 4WD car and closed the door, resting his elbow on the windowsill.

"I've had four years as a lieutenant colonel, six as a division commander. I call that a good run, and I always quit while I'm ahead," he explained before pressing down on the accelerator and bouncing as the jeep lurched forward, over the curb, across the sidewalk and onto the adjoining road. "Give my regards to Her Excellency the Ambassador!" he shouted back at him.

**III**

"How's your leg?"

Walker was sitting towards the front of a commandeered city bus, a pencil board propped against his left leg. Against it, he was scribbling with a pen on a scrap of paper, official 1st Central Division of the Republican Guard stationary.

Flight Officer Kaneshiro was sitting next to him, apparently staring at his awkwardly propped leg, and not the letter. "My back was what hurt, my leg is just a side effect of that," he explained before looking back at the paper.

"Is that…?" Kanna asked.

Walker nodded. "You're not any good at writing, are you?"

Kanna didn't know how to respond to that, so he turned back to his pencil board and frowned. _I wrote letters to His Excellency Himself, and I can't write a simple request-of-transfer. It's probably a good thing I stopped with those, I spend enough time incoherently stammering on in person, the last thing I need him reading is…_

His train of thought was interrupted when the bus halted abruptly, sending his kneecap into his face and knocking Kanna forward on her chest. She fared better than him, and looked down to see part of his nose red from kneeing his own face, which she found funny beyond suppression.

"What the hell was that?"

"Looks like gridlock at the intersection. The navy's handing out food, looks like the line's backed up from traffic," Dac Bishop explained, rising from his seat for a better look out the window.

"No good deed goes unpunished," A. K. Mazuri announced.

"Huh?" Dac asked before following Mazuri's pointing finger out the window. Past the intersection, three troop trucks with Space Force's dark blue flag hanging from them were awkwardly parked on a curb, choking traffic behind them. Next to them was a familiar eight-wheeled armored personnel carrier overloaded with naval infantry in military police garb, their white helmets and belts flickering in the afternoon skylight. Dac squinted—the naval infantry were aiding uniformed sailors in offloading neatly-packed grey cartons from the truck beds, each about the size of a breadbasket. Watching them hand off the cartons to the civilians, Dac realized they _were _breadbaskets, literally, as the residents of Old Town torn them open. The sailors and MP_s _nonchalantly gave each civilian a carton, women, men, children, in a rather dispassionate, mechanical manner, who in turn ran off with their hard-won gains, shoving through the crowd. The other naval infantry brandishing rifles kept order.

"We're feeding them," Dac announced.

"Well, Earth _is _a net food exporter. So many of D-120's agricultural pods were cannibalized by the defensive fleet or destroyed by us," Walker pointed out. He recalled seeing at least one agricultural pod, separated from its network, turned into a beam gun and missile platform, leading it to be destroyed by a thermonuclear torpedo.

"Where else will they get food?" Kanna asked, glancing over Walker's shoulder.

"Food supplies are the responsibility of the victor to the vanquished," Walker mumbled. "And unlike the weather, they can't be supplied by flipping a switch."

Kanna gave an approving nod, while Dac elbowed her. "Hey, I don't think it's those trucks. Look over there!"

Almost a hundred meters downspin, well past the armored personnel carrier, a pair of military 4WD cars were parked in front of the gate to an expansive urban estate. One was using its towing winch to pull open the ornate front gate—after a few noisy seconds of tires spinning in reverse, the gate tore off its hinges and the driver slammed down on the breaks. From there it was a just a few meters to the tall French doors, where six naval infantry joined by a particularly short CAST man in full armor crowded around with their submachine guns. They brought out a battering ram—one swing knocked the door open and they vanished inside amid plenty of shouting but no gunfire. By then, a dozen onlookers had gathered, going as far as the outside gate, just in time to see the CAST man drag a sturdily-built older man, in an unbuttoned Alliance Space Forces uniform, by his collar as he continued to resist, followed by a hysterical older woman, presumably his wife, and a similar upset younger woman, presumably his daughter.

"What part of 'all flag officers are to remain under house arrest until further notice' do you not understand, _ojisan?_" the CAST snapped through the open visor of an armored helmet. While Walker couldn't hear the inquiry, looking closer her realized it wasn't an unusual short man but merely a particularly short woman, mostly by the narrow shoulders and the visible curvature of her full-body armor. To the surprise of all, the larger and older officer threw his shoulder into her, knocking her onto her back before two MP_s _piled on him and the others pushed the two family members away. The CAST fell on her back and her unsecured helmet popped off. She snapped back up to her feet and looking thoroughly annoyed, pulled off her balaclava, revealing a mop of vividly scarlet hair and blue eyes, along with a blooded lip. Anger turned to amusement; she wiped her lip with her glove and grinned at the man struggling beneath two barely-twenty-year-old naval infantry before spitting out some blood.

The old officer tried again: he threw his weight on one of the inexperienced naval infantry, knocking him to the ground before managing to break free of the other and running for the crowd. Walker winced after the CAST delivered a kick to the back hard enough to finally drop the officer and elicit screeches from his family—he thought she might have killed him with that armored boot until the two haggard and embarrassed infantrymen picked him up and he visibly locked his legs.

"Get him checked out in a medic, than to the Defense Ministry!" the short CAST ordered, her violent grin now replaced by a neutral expression that matched the sailors handing out food. A few onlookers got out of her way as she shoved past them, grabbed her helmet, and then climbed into the jeep.

"The victor and the vanquished indeed, Flight Lieutenant," Mazuri muttered quietly.

"Sirs, your attention please!" a junior officer at the front of the bus shouted. "It looks like traffic isn't really going anywhere, so we're going to have you disembark and complete the rest of the trip on foot."

This got a few groans from the passengers, causing Kanna to snicker. "It's barely a dozen blocks, sirs, you'll be fine. If any wounded need assistance, just ask, otherwise make sure you have your possessions and just follow the lines coming out the bus down Aurelia Boulevard, you can't miss it. That'll take you directly to your space port complex."

"Great, more walking," Mazuri muttered while Dac nodded in spiteful agreement. The four followed the procession out of the bus, Walker disembarking last and turning when he thought he heard something.

"Do you hear that?"

"I don't hear anything," Dac replied.

"No, I hear that, it's coming from over there," Kanna said, turning just in time to see another officer walking around the bus nearest to her stand at attention. "Lieutenant Colonel, sir!"

Mazuri and Dac immediately assumed her posture, standing at attention as Marcus North appeared in his dark crimson uniform underneath a light jacket. North immediately waved at them to be ease. "Flight Officer Kaneshiro, I'd like to borrow your flight lieutenant for a few minutes. I promise he won't miss his flight."

Realizing he meant him, Walker belatedly and awkwardly stood at attention. "Lieutenant Colonel North, sir, what can I do for you?" he asked as the three others slowly turned to join the procession. North stared at him for a moment longer, his jaw clenched and head cocked, before grabbing him by the shoulders and embracing him for a few seconds. Walker stood their awkwardly, hands still flat against his sides.

North released him, a frantic, toothy grin on his face. "I'm really sorry, I can't imagine how uncomfortable that must have been—but since you vanished on that colony, I've..."

He paused, clenched his jaw and smiled again. "I'm very glad to see you, Walker."

Walker finally lowered his arm. "Thank you, Colonel North…Marcus."

North patted him on the cheek, still smiling. "You look like hell."

"I've been hearing a lot of that recently."

"Well, you did pull one goddamn stunt or two, didn't you? God, sit down, you look like you're going to faint." North pushed him easily into an out-of-the-way bench and sat down next to him. "I read your report. What you had time to write, anyway."

Walker let his head fall back slightly. "I've violated the conventions on warfare," he said unmoving.

"Still always the pessimist, Walker? God, what a mess that red mobile armor made."

"Those conventions honored by OZ. Endangering people and failing to protect property unrelated to military operations, property of noncombatants. Bringing undue hardship not proportional to military necessity. Undue hardship and undue suffering," he remarked stiffly.

North looked at him sympathetically. "You know right before I entered D-120, I sent Treize Khushrenada my resignation?"

Walker turned to him rater abruptly but said nothing.

"There's no career in OZ for any military officer who _uses_ nuclear weapons. But giving up a commission isn't the worst price to pay for the lives of sailors and pilots."

North leaned forward, resting and arm on a knee. "I really can't believe it—you get kidnapped in one colony, sent to another, held at enemy headquarters and drafted into the enemy war industry's last ditch plan. Then you manage to _sabotage _it and escape. I always thought you had about as much personality as a mobile doll, but here you are—one ingenious little…" he said before stopping.

"You know, a lot of people would consider that seriously cool," he said, chuckling.

"I never thought of myself as _cool_," Walker said, matter-of-factly.

"You should try! It'll do wonders for your self-esteem."

"I never thought I had a problem with my self-esteem."

North laughed again and shook his head. Listening to the unending clack and clomp of boots behind them, the two men sat quietly for a minute before Walker spoke.

"If you mind me asking, Colonel, why hand in your resignation?"

North raised an eyebrow, beckoning Walker to elaborate. "The way I see it, sir, you had permission as part of Operation 'Citadel' to authorize the use of nuclear weapons, and you only used them in accordance to the rules governing warfare."

"And by that you mean?"

Walker frowned. "_I think _if you presented the issue in that light, you wouldn't need to hand in your resignation, regardless of tradition."

Another minute of silence, North cocking his head before looking back at Walker. "Walker, you went to Lake Victoria, didn't you?"

_Oh my, story inbound. _"Yes sir, and you?"

"Yes, the New Mombasa campus. I was just transferring from the Alliance Air Force officer program to the Specials, and I had some money saved up, so I rented a nice flat with a different roommate who rotated in each year. My last year, my roommate was this much younger Italian man, younger than you in fact, who was studying to be a teacher or a lawyer or something—I don't remember what. What I do remember was that he was utterly capricious. He'd promise to do something, some chore or another, and then put it off for a week before he forgot it entirely, then he'd repeat the process three or four times. He'd string out a five-minute responsibility into a two week affair sometimes. And me being me, whenever he asked me to do something, I'd do it immediately, that minute. That, and he was a slob, an underage alcoholic, a hacking smoker would sleep on the couch instead of his own bed."

North extended both of his arms, stretching. "I promise this story as a point: after about six months of this, I finally snapped, cursing him out in private in my room. I didn't know at the time, though, that his allegedly bad hearing was good enough to make that out through my door and the cover of a news program, and he gave me an earful for it." He put his hands together and smiled wistfully. "Then I retaliated, telling him that if he wanted me to stop badmouthing him to myself, he had to at least _pretend _to give a shit about his responsibilities rather than lying and bullshit-excusing himself out of everything, like he did."

He glanced at Walker, still smiling, before looking away. "And then what happened, sir?"

"Oh, nothing. He stopped procrastinating for about a week before going back to exactly the way he was before, same slob, same drinking, same bullshit excuses like he was the only 'busy' person in the world." North leaned back. "The _point _of this story, Walker?"

Walker thought about it. "Keeping a healthy skepticism?'

He put a hand on Walker's shoulder. "You can't _fix _irresponsible, Walker. You can fix cruelty, you can even fix stupid, but you _can't _fix irresponsible. People just are, or they aren't, in which case they get jobs where their irresponsibility becomes the problem of others."

He paused. "Sometimes thermonuclear weapons enter the equation," he added quickly, as an afterthought.

Walker nodded slowly. "Another short story told long, sir."

"'Attaboy Walker. Keep up the good work," he told him briskly, patting him on the back before rising to his feet, newly-invigorated.

"If you mind me asking, Colonel…and then what?"

"You mean if I do resign? Probably write my memoirs, I think there might be readers for that sort of thing. I'll get to keep my pension, and it might be time for a well-earned sabbatical."

"And what of your friend, sir?"

North gave him an incredulous look.

"When people relate stories like this, there's a tendency to leave the cited example hanging, inconclusive, for whatever reason, perhaps to augment to story."

North snickered. "I don't know, unlike my other comrades from the Academy days, we didn't keep in touch. Probably having a ball employed in some high-paying job where you have to rub elbows. Or four beer cans deep into his alcoholism. Or smoking like a chimney to cure the common cold. Or all three, I don't know," he said dismissively. "He was the kind of chap who become positively _giddy _about wearing a shirt that said 'Fuck you' on it, but then throw a fit about being cursed in a private one-person rant. What kind of job is that suited for?"

Walker opened his mouth answer before North raised a finger. "That was rhetorical, Walker, just like all my rants."

"Yes sir, Lieutenant Colonel North."

North gave him an almost-fatherly smile. "Come on, Walker. You look like getting out of that _bus _tired you out, I'll drive you to the space port. Lucky me, you're barely three blocks from the Republican Guard barracks."

"That's…actually pretty disappointing, sir." They'd been on that bus for at least ten minutes.

North led him to his 4WD car, which he smacked twice on the hood. "Take this as a compliment, but I cannot believe a kid like you did what you did. For those sort of antics…a year ago, you would have gotten the Colonial Cross, First Class. But a year ago, we wouldn't have been attacking Alliance Headquarters in D-120."

_And Zechs would be here with us. _"How much things change in a year, sir," he answered as he climbed in.

Walker had privately hoped the drive with North would be quieter—it was a little, though not totally silent. "Well, how was the victory party, barely a day ago, was it? Even you must have enjoyed it."

Walker cocked his head and thought hard—he actually didn't remember the night as vividly as he should have, he'd consumed just enough champagne in his weakened state for most of it to be a vague blur. He did vividly remember the hour immediately following his short stint as a musician: ducking, he hoped, just out of Squadron Commander Ogasawara's field of vision, Nabiki dragging him into the crowd and the shorter, slender woman throwing her arm over him and holding more alcohol in the other, uniform unbuttoned to her navel and laughing hysterically the whole time. Separated from his closer comrades, he'd been pressured into dancing and some other juvenile hijinks—though "convinced" might have been a more accurate word. The rest was blurrier.

"Is that a smile? That's a smile, Walker! You're smiling!"

"Sir, please keep your eyes on the road!" he shouted.

North seemed to have no trouble swerving in and out of traffic at that speed while barely noticing the road. "What, did you…hook up?"

Staring forward, Walker glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "I'm sorry, 'hook up'?"

Duffle bag in hand, Kanna led Mazuri and Dac down along the sidewalk, other Mobile Suit Troops officers in front and behind them.

"What do you think Colonel North wanted with Walker?" Dac asked, a little loudly.

"Well, he was with him at L1-B-991 when he was kidnapped, wasn't he? Maybe he just wanted to apologize," Mazuri suggested.

"OF-4_s _apologize? Since when?"

Across the street, some muffled shouting could be heard, in the direction of the intersection. Kanna stopped in the line, shouldered her duffle bag and then crossed the street.

"I'll see you guys at the spaceport!"

"First Walker, now her. Where's she off to?" Dac asked irritably.

"Oh, I'll bet she 'smells blood' or something like that," Mazuri said with a sigh.

Kanna jogged to the intersection, forced her way through the crowd, and bumped against a naval infantryman, who promptly stood at attention. Looking easily over his head, she spotted the diminutive CAST woman, standing in her hunter green normal suit. One of the two civilian women from earlier, the younger one, was bawling uncontrollably, pulling uselessly on the flexible armored plates that lined her suit. Corporal Carver, as shown by her collar rank insignia and the name sewn onto her breast, saw Kanna just behind the naval infantry, took a last look at the civilian before shoving her off, and stood at attention. "Ma'am!"

Kanna almost greeted her when she was cut off from loud bawling from the civilian, who'd wriggled out from the grasp of the attending sailor. She attempt to strike the shorter Carver, who parried and took her closed fist before giving her a more spiteful look and pinning her down.

"You gonna' behave?" she snarled in an awkwardly high-pitched voice.

The woman bawled something Kanna couldn't make out before the sailor, joined by a military policewoman, took her and forced her into the crowd, leading her off. Given that there were two of them, it seemed to take an inordinate effort on their part.

"She's still upset about her dad," Carver explained to Kanna quickly before adding, "…ma'am."

Kanna stared at her being led off, then back at the comparatively tiny, trim strike trooper in her bulky suit. Even with a dispassionate expression devoid of any compassion and some blood smeared across her chin and mouth, she seemed like the last person one would find in a military occupation: she was too young, practically still a child, with large blue eyes and a round features.

She realized, just as Carver was waiting for her to say something, she had nothing to say. "I like your hair, Corporal," she said finally.

Carver put a hand in her hair, a different, deeper shade of red then Kanna's. "Thanks, Flight Officer, ma'am. I…like your height." Carver barely reached up to her chest.

"How old are you?"

A familiar desperate but angry howl of misery from the crowd gave her brief pause. "I'm sixteen, ma'am."

"And you're…not too short to be in in CAST?"

She raised an eyebrow. "And you're not too tall to pilot a mobile suit, ma'am?" she asked quickly. The reply seemed to allay Kanna and she laughed Carver, who smiled back smartly.

**IV**

The spaceport complex, one of the dozens that ringed the torus outer wall, was largely indistinguishable from its counterparts through the rest of the colony, all much smaller than the primary space docks, both military and civilian, located closer to the torus's equator and on the bracing arm. Currently, every one of those small complexes had been diverted for military use, with all civilian passengers and cargo going through part of one of the civilian docks.

Dac and Mazuri, having gone on foot directly to the complex—a more modern-looking above-ground concrete facility that stood out from its rustic surroundings—thought they'd beaten both Walker and Kanna there. Dac looked up at the arrivals and departures listings, which even he could tell were abnormally sparing.

"You happy to go back to Earth?"

Mazuri thought it through. "Not as much as I'd have thought," he confessed.

"Well, I am ecstatic," he admitted. "It couldn't happen soon enough. I bet Levinsky feels the same way, poor kid."

"Poor kid," Mazuri repeated. "You're twenty minutes older than him. And you know this is just a divisional reordering? It's entirely possible we'll be sent to Brussels, debriefed, given a weekend of leave and then just sent back to Outer Space," Mazuri pointed out. "It's not like our equipment is being sent back with us."

"At least it's a weekend, and at last we won't be coming back _here_. We're not part of the occupation," Dac fired back. He was certain of that much, apparently. "Otherwise, thanks for ruining all my hopes and dreams, Ajay."

"You're welcome, David."

In actuality North and Walker had arrived at almost the same time, coming up through the parking garage to the lobby and the escalators that led down to the boarding concourse, a few other eateries and stores and eventually the actual hangars. Though the whole facility looked completely undisturbed—not only were glass storefronts and barriers intact, but even the polished granite floor looked unusually clean, probably from disuse Walker thought—it had barely any civilian personnel present. Just a few uniformed employees of the L1 Inter-Colonial Transit Company dutifully behind their counters and barely a handful of store still open.

The two made a straight line for a vending machine that seemed to be working. North went first, but kept looking over his shoulder.

"So, you're thinking about requesting a transfer?"

"Yes sir."

"I guess we're more alike than I realized, Walker," he told him, pressing a button, then another. The machine didn't respond.

"You have to put in money, Colonel," Walker offered.

"Yes, I see that," he muttered, going through his uniform's pockets. "What I'm saying is that we've both got a crippling fear of success."

Walker didn't think that was true in either of their cases, but didn't vocalize his objection—his face made his thoughts quickly apparent though.

North sighed. "Now, I'm not saying there aren't any good reasons. Obviously, I think there are for me or I wouldn't give up what'll probably be the pinnacle of my professional life. And this'll be your…third time being shot down?"

"Fourth, sir," Walker added.

"Off the top of my head, I can't think of any pilot who's been shot down out of four mobile suits and didn't leave the M.S. Troops." He finally found a crumpled Nonventan banknote, cheaply-made paper money with elaborate designs on either side, and fed it to the machine. "To tell the truth, most of them are dead. The rest had their spines so badly messed up they weren't fit to be pilot."

"So what you're saying, Colonel, is that that I beat the odds and shouldn't squander that fact," Walker said, sounding quite unconvinced.

North tapped one of the buttons and after a loud series of clangs, a tall, narrow orange-white-red coffee can fell into the open slot at the bottom. He grabbed it and, instead of opening it, tossed it to Walker, who hastily caught it.

"Ueshima," he said, reading the side.

"Can you believe they have this stuff up here? Amazing."

"How long do you think canned liquid coffee takes to go bad, Colonel?"

North gave a disarming shrug and smile. "Drink up, Walker, you look like you haven't slept in since May."

Obliging, Walker pulled the tab and the can gave a reassuring hiss when it depressurized. "For what it's worth, Colonel, I don't think our cases are the same. And I really don't think you should resign."

"Well, _now_ I have no choice—I can't be the one to consider your transfer, my judgments been compromised," he countered playfully. "Sleep on it, Walker. That's an order. I think what you've said Mr. Mazuri and Mr. Kaneshiro told you is correct: you're the only person who can make this decision."

"Thank you, sir."

"Though I'd like to ask—aside from the obvious, of course, why now? After all, you've been shot down three prior times. Some people might accuse you of not taking the bloody hint."

Holding the open can to his lips, Walker paused, then lowered it. His expression had gotten much graver, it even felt like he'd shrunk a little bit.

North immediately regretted asking. He recalled the first time he'd seen an image of Walker, sometime before they'd technically met at Hammaguir Cosmodrome on their way to Outer Space. It was a photo for an article in _La Alba Nero_, years ago, about a certain rising star in the Alliance Special Mobile Suit Troops. Walker's appearance was completely incidental.

"I'm very sorry, forget I asked," he muttered rather meekly.

"It's fine, sir," Walker assured him. It was apparent he knew the answer.

He frowned. "What does Kaneshiro think?"

"Kanna-…Flight Officer Kaneshiro doesn't think I should transfer. She thinks I'm in a bad funk of sorts because of everything that's happened, that it's temporary and I'll grown out of it, because I'm younger than her. She didn't say as much, but that's clearly what she thinks."

"Maybe she's right."

Walker gave him a rather informal, and unconvinced, look and he smiled back. "Kaneshiro was worried about you, you know that. Angry at me too, I'm sure. You're lucky to have her."

"I'm sure I am."

"Yes, but do you realize you might not be so lucky if you transfer out? Not everyone gets a Kaneshiro." He put a hand on Walker's left epaulet. "At least once, take stock of what you _do _have."

North looked around. "Where is she? Not to mention those other two losers in your unit, I could see why you wouldn't miss them," he asked casually, eliciting a visible frown on Walker's face. He led Walker away from the vending machines in the direction of voices by the escalators, only to have Walker abruptly stop at the corner and take hold of North's arm, his face frozen. North stared at Walker, then at his white-gloved hand holding back his arm, then back at Walker's locked visage.

"I'm afraid I don't feel that way about you, Flight Lieutenant," he joked kindly.

"I apologize, Colonel, but would you mind waiting just a few minutes?" Walker asked, jaw clenched.

North glanced around the corner. Squadron Commander Ogasawara was standing next to the comparatively-short Second Lieutenant Parsons, while the two tried to have as normal and civil a conversation as they could manage.

North looked at Walker, who'd released his arm, and grinned. "Something happen?"

"I'm trying to avoid to avoid Squadron Commander Ogasawara for at least the immediate future, or potentially the rest of my career in the Mobile Suit Troops. Neither of which sounds difficult."

"Well, that's boring."

"Again, very sorry, sir."

"Didn't the two of you…_chat_…during the celebrations? Like normal people?"

"Well, I was inebriated, which made it easier sir," Walker concluded gradually, causing North to shake his head.

"Jesus Christ, nineteen-year-olds."

Around the corner by the waiting area benches, Edward Parsons momentarily took his eyes off his mobile as he waited for the small screen to signal a completed decryption on a message from Earth. "Squadron Commander, is there something going on between you and I have to assume Flight Lieutenant Walker, seeing how inappropriately happy Colonel North seems?" he asked quietly.

Emi's stern expression grew a little colder and she didn't respond, to his disappointment. "And done. Luxembourg says Carmen Soletta's going to temporary holding in Evere, after that, _probably _Diekirch."

"Thanks," Emi muttered, staring slightly past his head at the body of other First Recon Battalion officers congregating by the escalator.

"You know ma'am, the Military Commissariat does offer some more high-tech solutions for interviews," he pointed out in a friendly tone. "Or on the other hand, you could leave it to us, ma'am, it's sort of what we do. I did have to review your moderately-entertaining dressing down of Soletta," he explained rapidly.

Emi looked back at him. "You watched that?"

"We watch everything ma'am," he reminded her. "You and the apathetic Ms. Armonia might want to consider leaving this to the professionals."

Emi didn't look impressed, but he continued. "See, ma'am, there are studies, courses about how to build a rapport with a prisoner. Now, Carmen Soletta's not exactly Alexander Fielding, and to be honest, _pretending_ to be catatonic _is _a little rude," he began jovially. Emi just kept staring at him. "Though I should say ma'am, you did not strike me as the kind of person to be upset by a lack of decorum by a captured officer."

By then, he was showing off a smiling mouth full of white teeth. "Or you could…just not care, Squadron Commander!" he offered in as friendly a manner as he could manage.

Emi still didn't respond, so Parsons gave an annoyed sigh before pocketing his mobile. Due to their height differences, Emi could insolently stare over the top of his cap while he had to settle for staring just past her chest unless he wanted to visibly look upwards. He didn't like looking up while standing in general, but particularly to her.

_What did Eva say—pick a point, the gold trim on collars, a medal, a pilot scarf, and keep staring at it. It's the same as staring people in the eye. _"I suppose that's not an option until the Sun Queen loses interest," he muttered irreverently.

"I think that'll be it, Lieutenant."

"You _should _give it some thought, ma'am. You certainly didn't break any rules, but professionalism and…"

"Thank you, Second Lieutenant, and good luck until I see you Earthside again," she interrupted very evenly before spinning on her right boot and strolling off. Now alone, Parsons gave a dissatisfied grunt before turning to the group of pilots who were barely holding back their laughter, and jeered at them in return.

"Where's a Gundam when you need one?" he mumbled under his breath.

Past the First Recon pilots, just around the corner, Walker watched the strange conversation, North leaning just over his shoulder.

"That was very unusual," Walker said finally.

"I agree. I guess you won't miss that—there's no way the Engineering Corps, Earth or otherwise, will be as weird the Mobile Suit Troops. No one's weirder than pilots."

Walker gave a very faint nod as North patted him on the shoulder. "Who knows, maybe _I'll_ see you Earthside. Goodbye and good luck, Walker," he told him before he turned to leave.

The response didn't come until North was already a few meters away. "_Dio salvi l'Alleanza_," Walker quietly said, just loud enough that North could hear him. The lieutenant colonel paused in his steps, smiled facing away from Walker, then continued.

**V**

"We're here, sir."

The taxi driver—one of a dozen still operating in all of the Military Quarter—looked over his seat into the passenger cabin of his vehicle. His lone fare that day, a tall, fatigued man in his thirties, wearing a warm wool coat over a three-piece suit, the quintessential style of dress for bourgeois men in L1-D-120 for at least sixty years, if not longer.

The man's head was tilted back, causing him to stare at the cabin's low ceiling with rather dead-looking eyes.

"Sir?" he repeated after a moment.

His passenger blinked twice. "I'm sorry, I'm a bit tired," he apologized.

"Are you sure you're all right, sir? Maybe I ought to drive you to a hospital, there's a clinic…"

"No, I'm fine, but thank you," he assured him.

The driver wasn't convinced, but didn't press the matter. "That'll be sixty-eight…" he began before his fare stuck two bank notes in his face, at least a hundred. "Sir, I can't…"

"Consider it a tip," he repeated, before he took it with some reluctance. His passenger stretched his back, then slowly made his way towards the door. The driver immediately opened his own and circled around to open the door. He'd seen his fare's movements when he entered his cab—it was obvious he had, at best, a bad left shoulder or more serious injury, and a new one at that.

"Thank you," the man said with a smile before walking towards the lobby.

"Any time, sir. You know they're barring nonessential travel," he called out. "You need certain documents."

Uamr bin Khattāb, formerly of the Noventan Republican Guard, waved back at him with his right arm the before climbing up the steps into the lobby. Taking the place of the regular transit security personnel, sailors and naval infantry from the OZ Space Navy dressed up as gendarmerie covered every entrance and exit, personnel wearing white helmets, belts and holsters. _So these are the young women and men who triumphed over the United Earth Sphere Alliance Extraterrestrial Forces. _It was rather depressing when put in that context. They didn't look like soldiers, they looked like kids.

There were only two other people not in some sort of uniform—an elderly couple in dull-colored kimonos and coats, slowly following behind an increasingly-impatient OZ military policewoman who was apparently serving as their guide. He beckoned the couple to the escalator, where a sailor dutifully checked their passes, ran a handheld scanner over them, and let them through. There didn't appear to be any other security measures in place. After a minute of awkward shuffling, the man realized he had forgotten something, and the two doubled-back to the lobby.

_Let's see if he's here. _It was completely by chance that he'd seen the lone soldier of OZ he come to know since the coup d'état on the street, when the noisy petrol-powered car he was riding in had cut hastily through an intersection. He was absolutely surprised: he thought Walker would be dead, or if not dead, off to somewhere else, OZ was everywhere after all. He certainly didn't expect to see him racing down Barberini Street, breaking traffic laws.

That had brought Khattāb here. In his right coat pocket, he had a North American snubnosed revolver, taken from a private cache in the Business District. Despite the laws, L1-D-120 was swimming in guns, mostly a consequence of the state of emergency declared months ago, practically all of them in the hands of the military and business leaders, along with their families. The difference being that, whereas D-120 had revolvers, semi-automatic pistols, and even sport and hunting rifles, OZ's Noventa Strategic Offensive Operation had squad machine guns, assault carbines, marksmen's rifles, and anti-tank rockets—the same equipment the Reserve Army possessed. OZ also had mobile suits.

It took him a few minutes of lingering by the ticket dispensers to spot him: Walker, now wearing a new, starched hunter green uniform, looking like an actual officer instead of a malnourished insomniac working in a military naval dock.

Except for the now-resolved uncertainty of Walker's whereabouts, everything else seemed completely within expectations. There was no extremely thorough security because, as with the dozen or more other small spaceports, it was more practical to approach personnel safety from a retaliatory than a preventative standpoint. Someone _could _walk into the Aurelia Boulevard Spaceport with bricks of plastic explosive under their coat and explode themselves by the entrance, but that would rather indiscriminately maim and kill the handful of civilians in the complex as well as their intended targets, and the normal military response—making it illegal to have even _known _the bomber—could be expected.

The less dramatic alternative—to pick one target, approach them directly while they were still in the lobby, and strike before the inevitable response—was more sensible. Khattāb waited until the obviously-higher-ranking officer parted ways with Walker, since it was more likely security was watching him, and considered his approach. Less than thirty paces, that's all it would take, to get close enough that it'd take just a second to draw his weapon and fire. The revolver carried six civilian self-defense cartridges, the kind that would grievously wound an unarmored target but not necessarily kill them unless hitting a vital area, so _some _aiming was necessary. The sights were also very rudimentary, and like most mobile suit pilots, he was a permissible, but not unusually good, shot.

Putting his right hand in his coat pocket, he felt the groves of the revolver's grip and its small safety catch. Walker was standing at the corner, apparently lost in thought, not moving. The nearest armed guard was around ten meters away, close but not close enough he felt. Walker seemed to hear something and then turned away from Khattāb, his back now facing him.

_I came here for a reason, now's as good a time as any_. Taking a deep breath, he flipped the safety and, hand still in his pocket, calmly paced towards Walker. Twenty meters left, fifteen, then ten. It was then he stopped.

From the direction Walker was looking, a particularly large officer with a white headband approached and stopped immediately before him, and the two began talking. It wasn't hard to imagine that the tall Asian woman was a colleague or subordinate of Walker's. It was problematic: he'd been confident he could fire at least one shot off at Walker before armed personnel responded, but with the tall woman standing as she did, he'd be seen coming, and possibly stopped.

_Nothing's ever easy. _He reconsidered his approach—Walker's conversation had the benefit of keeping him in one place, for now, and at least he seemed more distracted the more they spoke. He considered circling around and coming in from the side. After a minute of conversing, Walker's rigid posture had begun to relax, and he seemed more focused on the conversation than before.

Khattāb kept watching him. In the handful of occasions he'd seen Walker, he hadn't seen him relaxing or even acting naturally. He wasn't quite a nineteen-year-old man, but his body language, while tired, seem more natural and less planned. He even chuckled and smirked at the much livelier woman's observations. He continued watching, even as two more averaged-size men joined them, also carrying luggage. The two were practically raucous next to reserved Walker, particularly the other Caucasian.

He continued watching, even as the tall woman smacked the blonde man on the shoulders and the four proceeded to the escalator, were scanned, and began descending.

He'd missed his chance. "Sir."

Khattāb was still standing in the middle of the lobby, one hand in his coat pocket, when a CAST man in his bulky armor had quietly snuck up on him.

"Sir, can you take your hand out of your pocket please?"

He turned. The large strike trooper, in his armored normal suit, carried a sub-machinegun in one hand, the name 'Cameron' sewn to his chest.

Khattāb gave a sigh. He felt like he imagined how Walker had—dead tired. "What a waste," he mumbled.

"Sir, what's in your hand?" Warrant Officer Cameron asked him more directly. Some of the other OZ personnel had begun to notice the disruption, but remained calm until Khattāb took his hand out of his pocket, still holding the snubnosed revolver. Another much smaller CAST behind Cameron let her handheld scanner hang by its lanyard nd immediately aimed with her own sub-machinegun. A sailor tripped the alarm.

"What the hell's that?" Walker muttered, glancing over his shoulder as they stepped off the escalator.

"Nice to see they have turnstile jumping in Outer Space," Dac said with a laugh.

Kanna looked less amused, tossing her luggage at Dac who barely caught it before running back up the same escalator. "You three head to the shuttle, I'll take a look," she commanded.

Walker was about to object but said nothing, while Mazuri shook his head and shrugged. When Kanna reached the top of the escalator, she could clearly hear Warrant Officer Cameron shouting.

"Sir, put down the weapon!" he yelled over his weapon's sights. The older man was still holding his revolver, aimed at the ground, with an apathetic, even dazed face.

"What the hell…" To Kanna, it looked like a civilian with a pocket handgun had walked right into the spaceport.

"Ma'am, you need to stay back," a sailor announced, trying to push Kanna back down the escalator.

"Sir, put down the weapon now!" Cameron repeated.

The man gave him a look of unmistakable contempt, then saw Kanna being pushed back by a sailor. Without any impression of thought, he raised his right hand slightly, and the revolver with it.

"_Last warning, put the weapon down now!_" Cameron screamed.

The sailor succeeded in pushing Kanna back down onto the downwards-heading escalator, just as Cameron and the CAST woman let loose with a three-round burst from each of their weapons. The man crumpled so quickly he didn't seem cognizant of the fact he'd been shot six times. Bedlam broke out in the station, a pair of sailors half-shoving, half-shielding the elderly couple wearing the kimonos into a corner. The transit employees took cover behind their counters. The last thing Kanna saw as the escalator carried her back down to the concourse was the man in the coat, riddled with bullets and bleeding on the polished granite floor.

As Kanna had commanded, Walker, Mazuri and Dac were already in line to board the shuttle alongside other Seventh Division officers. They heard a diminished echo of the two gunfire bursts, just loud enough to ascertain it was gunfire.

"Oh god_damn _it, what was that?" Dac asked unhappily. "You don't suppose…?"

"Relax," Mazuri ordered. "Kanna's going to outlive all of us, you just watch," he assured them rather convincingly.

Just as he promised, she came running down the course to them, looking perturbed but completely unharmed, violet-grey eyes wide open.

"What happened?"

Kanna took a second to answer, eyes still open. "Some dude in the lobby just committed suicide-by-MP," she said finally.

"Some _dude_?" Mazuri repeated.

"Well, that explains the gunfire," Walker muttered.

"He had a pocket pistol in his coat pocket—when he refused to disarm, they…they shot him," she concluded, unbuttoning her collar nervously.

The three men stared at him warily.

"Dead."

"Yes, that's usually what happens when people get shot, Kanna," Mazuri repeated quietly before Walker gave him a harsh glance, then tossed him his own luggage. "Take that, will you?"

"Yes sir." He got the message.

While the two others left, Walker stood next to Kanna, towering over him with her tensed, muscular shoulders and haphazard-looking hair.

He tried to look calm. "This…happens in military occupations, sooner or later. Would-be assassins, protestors turning violent, or just people who refuse to accept the new status quo." He looked in the directions of the escalators, as if waiting for something. "It's always worse right after the occupation starts. The future is still unpredictable, inscrutable at that point," he muttered.

He turned back to Kanna, who was still tensed, as though prepared to strike. "No alarms, no continued gunfire. It was just the one. What did he look like?"

Kanna slowly glanced at him and shrugged. "Just some…local."

Reaching up, Walker patted her on the back twice. "Your instincts, as usual, serve you well. Better than mine."

Kanna's nose twitched for a second, before she nodded and turned in the opposite direction. "Smell something?"

She took her time answering. "I smell blood."

"Is something the matter?"

Walker glanced over and raised a hand at the much older flight, mustachioed lieutenant who entered through an adjoining hallway, pulling a small suitcase on wheels behind him.

"Clarkson, no, nothing, we just heard the gunfire earlier. Nothing to worry about."

F/L Clarkson raised a skeptical eyebrow and pursed his lips under his white-grey mustache. "That's what they always say, don't they?" He looked at Kanna, her muscles still visibly tensed under her formfitting uniform, and gave her a somewhat abrupt but otherwise harmless open-palmed smack on her back. "Come on, young people should keep their schedules too," he commanded.

"Yes sir!" Kanna sputtered out, while Walker looked at Clarkson, then her, than back at Clarkson.

"Whatever works," he muttered as Kanna quickly followed the flight lieutenant through the concourse.

**VI**

25143 Itokawa, an S-type silicate asteroid with a maximum diameter of just over 500 meters, originally possessed a Mars-crosser orbit before being captured for mineral extraction by a United Nations mandate and dragged into orbit just beyond Luna. Thirty years later, in the early years of the Alliance the newly formed UESA Space Forces towed the remainder just past the edges of the Second Lagrange Point to serve as material for space colonies and agricultural pods. For sixty years, the much-decreased remainder floating in empty space, ignored even during the revolutions against the Alliance. Finally, in mid-AC 195, the decision was made to use what was left of 25143 Itokawa for the massive battleship commissioned by OZ at MO-V, on the edge of Earth Sphere.

Flight Lieutenant Usachov, from the 1st Aerospace Division's Engineering Battalion, had been sent to oversee the reconditioning of 25143 Itokawa for its transit burns and then subsequent mounting of the large, modular nuclear-powered satellite drive systems necessary to move the asteroid, which still had a mass of more than ten million tonnes, into its new location on the frontier. He was chosen because he had some industrial as well as military experience with resource satellites.

"You know Andropov, next time we're both on Earth, you really need to take me up in that little plane of yours," Usachov said with a chuckle into his headset. At a small axillary comm terminal leading up to Itokawa's command center, he floated in the microgravity while keeping the terminal's monitor in view. The video signal itself was degraded and constantly interrupted, frequently returning back to a black screen reading a few words.

**OZ 194**

**L3-X-18999**

**SOUND ONLY**

Captain Andropov's reply came back in grainy, distorted Russian. "_Agreed-…it stands, that might be sooner than any of us had hoped._"

Usachov nodded. "It certainly may. That news out of D-120 is the best we've had in a while." The video flickered and gave out again, this time accompanied by an error message. "Andropov, are you still there?"

"…_interference. We'll catch up…give my regards to…-and good luck out there!_"

"All right, Andropov, take care," Usachov shouted necessarily into the headset before pulling it off and disconnecting. The more powerful primary communications system could probably have cut through most of the interference, but it was a personal call anyway.

Taking a guiding rail, Usachov floated back into the command center, laid out much like what you'd find on a century-old space fortress, and gestured for a status update.

"Sir, we're ninety percent finished attaching the satellite drive mechanism," one of the two officers on duty announced in English.

Usachov checked a monitor. The last of the ten modular drive systems was propelling itself at the lowest possible power into position to be securely anchored into place by construction mobile suits. Past it, he could make out the OZ-06SMS 'Space Leos' piloted by Colonial volunteers from L2, posting guard.

"After the mounting is finished, we complete our first burn…that leaves ten days to transfer to MO-V and our final retroburn," he noted aloud. By some miracle, they were actually well ahead of schedule. He managed to keep his satisfaction from his face.

"Contact Colonel Une so I can give her a progress report."

"Sir, yes sir!"

"Sir, new contact, bogey approaching from heading zero-six-zero—looks like a shuttle," another officer announced calmly.

"Another shuttle?" Usachov asked. _This again. Why the hell Wincomfleet and the rest of them not appreciate that this is no longer civilian space? _This was the third such shuttle to wander in since work had begun earlier that week and the sixth ship since the whole area had been closed off to general civilian traffic.

"Yes sir, but it's quite small for a shuttle," he said. A small, angular shuttle was highlighted in a new video window on one of the large monitors—Itokawa's the sensor array claimed it was barely a few meters wide, but the actual telescopes suggested it was closer twenty meters in length.

_Must be another glitch_. "Are its lines open?"

"Pinged back—yes sir, they're open. I've hailed them, but its crew isn't responding."

A mechanical failure, or something more malicious? "Get ahold of the troops in the field and have them guard the first defensive line."

"Yes sir!"

Eight cobalt blue mobile suits armed with beam rifles rejoined formation and took the line—twice as many remained on or just above the surface of Itokawa, and still more scrambling into position. "_Attention approaching shuttle, this is OZ's One-Hundred and Seventy-First Independent Battalion. This is your last warning—change your course at once! If you continue on your approach, we _will _open fire! We are not bluffing, this is your final warning!_"

Usachov was getting annoyed. They'd run into incidents like this in the past, but this was the first time the offender had refused to acknowledge their warnings. _Must be a particularly stupid type of brigand. _"Go ahead, permission given to open fire!"

The Colonial pilots manning the mobile suits did not hesitate. The eight mobile suits on a direct intercept course let loose first, peppering the shuttle along its straight, unwavering vector with beam fire. A flight of four more Leos joined with their autocannons, and a further four fired with carefully-stabilized dober guns. The shuttle seemed to shrug off the first barrage of fire until it vanished in a blinding explosion that lit up the whole asteroid.

"_Focus Actual to Itokawa Command. Bogey has been destroyed. Repeat, the unidentified shuttle has…wait, what?_"

"What is it, Focus Actual? What do you see?"

"_Itokawa Command, it has variable geometry! It's some kind of mobile suit, wait…no, it's a Gundam!_"

As the fireball behind it faded, a single white, red and blue Gundam stood just a few kilometers in front of them as they killed their relative acceleration. "_Fire! Fire! Fire!_"

"Scramble every last mobile suit!" Uschachov ordered, as their telescopes tracked it. Since transforming, it had not maneuver very much—more rounds from dober guns and beam fire raked it, sending it adrift. He looked at another screen: the machine closely resembled, though differed from, the combat data for Unit Zero-One.

"_This is Focus 2-1, we've hit it, it's off balance!_"

"Idiots, if it's really a Gundam, it won't die that easily!" he warned.

Usachov's warning was proven correct immediately: with a short turn from its AMBAC system, the Gundam spun around to face the asteroid, a massive, long-barreled beam cannon held in its starboard manipulator. It stabilized itself with its vernier thrusters, aimed just beneath 25143 Itokawa's equator, and then fired a single, full-power shot.

He saw the charged particle wave make contact, tearing open a fissure. Vibrations began to climb steadily as warning sirens blared. And before the ancient interior fragments that made up the potato-shaped asteroid began tearing apart after eight million years conjoined, Flight Lieutenant Usachov tried to look on the positive side.

"At least I don't have to make my progress report to Une," he told himself. The command center, and all of 25143 Itokawa exploded apart seconds later, taking with it the modular drive systems, docked support ships and mobile suit compliment with it.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_Published ahead of schedule, probably because this was actually a pretty easy to chapter to write. We have finally, after quite a long absence, returned to the actual plot of the television series (or the manga, as it might be). _

_Once again, I struggle with the time frames versus actually making a story people can bear reading. I think there's no harm in saying that the next chapter should cover the resignation of Treize Khushrenada and even the beginning of Operation 'Nova', along with Quatre's destruction of an entire space colony (remind me why people love that reprobate so much? Hahah.) Additionally,I hope to resolve the lone remaining "loose end" of the D-120 Plot Arc, as well as depict the actual surrender to OZ, but I can say with some confidence I am FINALLY actually finished with that entire arc. Thank God! Hopefully Don Cheadle's little story wasn't too boring, or too unrelated, even if Walker probably thought it was. _

_So stay tuned as always, and leave whatever feedback you can. _


	53. Lady Une

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 53 – Lady Une**

The shuttle used by OZ's ambassador in Outer Space was an elegant, swept-wing civilian design that had been popularized by the political elites in L1 in the late 'Eighties. Covered entirely in gleaming white anti-radiation coating, it had a wingspan of a just under forty meters and relied on two banks of conventional liquid-fuel engines, one under each wing. It was not particularly fast, nor was it armed, but it was particularly resilient, as no such spacecraft had been completed since AC 189 when the Winner Corporation bought out the factory and put a halt to production for whatever reason. The ambassador may have had the only operational unit left.

Though it was dwarfed by the _Ganymede-_class battlecruiser it was docking with, it was too large to enter either of the _Europa_'s mobile suit hangars, and instead linked with a special umbilical tunnel extending out from the ventral reserve catapult to the dorsal port on the shuttle.

Lieutenant General Gwinter Septim III, President of the Republic of Noventa, found it strange that OZ had chosen one of its own warships, rather than the presidential residence or other government buildings on L1-D-120, as the location of the armistice signing. As the military courier ship he'd taken came about and docked with the _Europa_, he began to understand why: attached to a pair of towing vessels, the EASFS _Africana_, the largest carrier in military service in Earth Sphere, was being secured by the crews of two more warships, the _Tethys _and the _Callisto. _The flagship of the Noventan Fleet, the crux of its naval superiority, surrendered with minimal damage. How depressing.

The Alliance delegation—they'd taken to calling it that among themselves, since the continued existence of the republic itself was uncertain at best—consisted of himself, his vice president Vice Admiral Walter Lewis, and Lieutenant General Gennaro, his new chancellor and provisional military chief-of-staff. Septim's previous head-of-government, a civilian by the name of Chen, had been killed in a shelter collapse in Old Town. His previous vice president, Brigadier General Ventei, had resigned following the catastrophic failure of his Capital Defense Plan.

They were joined by a detail of six presidential guards, probably unnecessary but permitted by OZ.

"The damage looks quite minimal," Gennaro observed calmly when he spied the ship through an uncovered bay window at the end of the corridor.

"You can thank our ex-defense minister for that," Septim replied gruffly.

"Sirs, if you'll follow me," their guide explained. The nine of them followed her passed rows of bored-looking sailors and to a conference room and looked like she was about to open the door when a message came over her earpiece. "Chief Representative Nguyen and Lieutenant Colonel Une will be with you shortly, if you'll wait here, sirs," she explained quickly before taking a guide rail and vanishing down the corridor.

They waited in the microgravity, surrounded by large, well-dressed honor guards. The OZ sailors, naval infantry and mobile suit crews, by comparison, looked rather shabby, their more-elaborate uniforms either missing or poorly-kept, though they did make an effort to stand at attention as they passed.

"Which one do you think we'll get?" Lewis asked quietly. "The Lady or the Ambassador?"

_Ventei wouldn't have asked_, Septim thought. "I don't know, Walter."

Gennaro said nothing, looking utterly relaxed in the micro-gravity. Of the three men, he was the only one who'd come close to seeing actual combat during the Battle of D-120, during the last hurrah of the Republican Guard forces he commanded.

"Let's hope we get the good one," Lewis muttered.

Septim sighed deeply. To him, there was no question of negotiation, and they were in no position to refuse OZ's terms now. The other colonies in the republic had formally seceded, and the last holdouts had been blasted out of their holes in the torus superstructure or had fled from Area 'D' entirely. Whichever persona of the commander-in-chief of OZ Space Forces appeared, it hardly mattered in his opinion.

The sliding metal doors to the conference room opened, though instead of being rushed in, another officer rushed out, this one quite an aloof beauty—had it not been for her uniform, Septim certainly wouldn't have pegged her for an officer. The pale bombshell with long, wavy black hair didn't even seem to notice the leaders of the enemy state as she floated by, compared to the sailors.

"Major, ma'am, if you've completed your briefing, we have a transorbital fighter waiting to take you directly to the Western European Military District," a junior officer announced.

"Then let's go," was the breathy response, putting her briefcase under her arm and, to their surprise, turning to them. The busty major gave the Alliance delegation one unexpected wink before vanishing around a corner, which only Gennaro seemed amused by. Lewis just shook his head repeatedly.

The doors to the conference room opened again and the three men allowed to enter, leaving their bodyguards behind. Septim drifted in first, taking a seat at the end of a rectangular mahogany table, then looked across and gave another sigh, this one in relief. At the other end, sitting in a modified maroon OZ dress uniform with gold epaulets, eyeglasses catching the ceiling lights, was their host.

Gennaro spoke first. "Good morning, Lady Une."

**II**

The passenger shuttle Flight Lieutenant Walker was aboard was not transorbital in the sense that it required a mass-driver to ascend to Earth orbit, but was fully capable of efficiently conveying up to sixty passengers between colonies and even to Earth in a typical spaceplane configuration. Such shuttles were the most commonly-used of their type in OZ Space Forces, minimum modifications of civilian models that were cheap and efficient to operate, if not particularly fast. Walker wasn't awake to make these technical observations—the chronically exhausted-looking officer had nodded off very shortly after boarding the shuttle and remained completely still since then, to the point where Flight Officer Kaneshiro, sitting next to him, had trouble determining if he was actually asleep or not. After a few hours of speculation, she took the time towards the end of their Hohmann transfer to Earth orbit when passengers could freely move about the cabin to pull off her tunic and stretch her legs. She first passed Flight Officer Mazuri and Pilot Officer Bishop, once again embroiled in some other stupid argument, she was sure.

"I'm telling you, if a resource satellite got hit, we'd be hearing about it. There'd be reports of wounded, troop movements, stuff like that, even _if _it wasn't our problem."

"There where did all these rumors come from, Ajay? The sky?"

"Well, yes, literally, but you're missing my point. Resource satellites don't just disappear. What have I always told you: things happen for a reason. 'Randomness' and 'chance' don't really exist—it's just a label for things people don't understand and can't deal with. If they knew, they'd cease to be 'random', and to people who do, they never were," Mazuri told him, pointing with his finger to emphasis his point.

Kanna shook her head at both of them as she floated down the aisle.

"Restless, Ms. Kaneshiro?"

The question was posed by an older, calmer speaker. Floating down the cabin, Kanna expertly spun herself over with a single motion to and saw Flight Lieutenant Clarkson resting in his window seat.

"Clarkson-_Tai-i_…"

Clarkson's lip shifted under his trademark mustache. He was probably the only officer in the cabin who had one. He gestured at the empty seat next to him. "If you're done stretching your legs, take a seat. A big girl like yourself can't be blocking the aisle, what if there was a micrometeorite impact or something else, God forbid," he muttered, his voice remaining even and steady.

Frowning, she floated over to him and sat down in the empty seat. "'Kanna' is fine, Tai-i."

"Well, Kanna, you can call me Clarkson then."

"Where're your wingmen?"

He gestured back at the cabin. "Sleeping in the back. They're an exceedingly restless bunch, hate being buckled in. Can't imagine why any of them became pilots," he explained.

Kanna eased into the empty seat and pulled down on her tank top, the loose portions of which tended to float upwards in microgravity. "Walker-Tai-i has been sleeping this whole time. I didn't want to wake him."

"You can hardly blame him," Clarkson pointed out. "If half of what I've heard he's been through actually happened."

Kanna nodded in agreement, still frowning. Clarkson reach into the pouch on the back of the seat in front of him and began looking through before pulling out a slickly-printed magazine. "Still thinking about that civilian in the spaceport, aren't you?"

That caught Kanna by surprise. When she didn't respond, Clarkson continued. "I don't blame you. It's not something we in Mobile Suit Troops see often. I've got family in the other services, during the Alliance days…every so often they'd be sent on this sort of assignment. Sometimes on Earth, more often in the colonies. And every so often, this would happen."

He bit his lip under his mustache. "I'm not sure if they ever got used to it."

"They still in the military?"

"No, no," he told her. "Smart kids, they resigned after 'Daybreak', took their pensions and lived their lives like normal people. Avoid the politics of military occupations, class, race and so forth."

The two sat in silence, Clarkson briefly stealing a glance every so often at the starfield visible through the window.

"Back when I was in high school," Kanna began finally, sounding a little wistful before pausing.

"Not that long ago," Clarkson added quickly.

She nodded. "When I was in high school, we took our local Ryukuan History course right before the international Alliance history course, as freshmen. I honestly didn't pay much attention, since I didn't like history, but it covered the Meiji Restoration, the annexing of Okinawa, the Pacific War and the American occupation Okinawa was returned to Japan. The professor then skipped a few hundred years until the Republic of the Ryukyus was declared, back in the 'Twenties, and how war was narrowly averted with Japan because the Alliance was formed and we could all coexist peacefully." Her expression twisted briefly. "Of course, even back then, lots of people thought that was propaganda, that the threat of war was made-up so the Alliance could show up as savior and peacekeeper, and that in truth, we had left peacefully and democratically and Japan had no desire or will to fight us. Why else would the republic have voted to rejoin with the State of Japan?"

Clarkson stroked his chin. "Quite a common story—I remember my own parents told me almost the exact same thing happened when they were growing in Scotland. It was enough to suggest that, perhaps, the Alliance didn't have the best interests of the Scottish or the Okinawans at heart, that it was counting on the failure of the postwar territorial lines and the resulting national and ethnic distrust to sustain itself. That was what created the Alliance, after all: the imperfect peace that came from the long war."

"But it wasn't _all _propaganda. We were different from the Japanese. The Alliance finally got the American bases relocated after three-hundred years, which was the unfair thing that Tokyo did, or at least everyone thought so. Barely any Ryukuan married into the Imperial family, and it'd been years since an Okinawan was elected prime minister."

"So there was something to it."

Kanna sighed. "I don't really understand the conspiracy between racism and politics, I guess."

Clarkson looked at Kanna, lip bristling under his white mustache.

"Do I mind if you I tell you a story, Flight Officer?"

She sat with her legs apart and hands on her knees. "Is it a good one?"

"Oh, I think so. It's the story of how I joined the military. See, my father was a successful entrepreneur, and his father before him, and so forth. But I didn't have the knack for it, so I went to work for an NGO in Georgia, where I'd settled after finishing school. Georgia in North America, I mean."

"What was it for?"

"Vocational training. Some nonsense about the 'skills gap', but it doesn't really matter. The point of the story is that I was hired in this NGO, more than thirty years ago, and I played the part. I mean, we all have parts to play in life, mine was of a 'would-be Southern boy'. Anyway, my superior was this very hardworking, very cunning round woman who was also from somewhere far away, and she had a part to play too. Are you familiar with the cliché of the 'sassy black woman'?"

When Kanna looked confused, he continued immediately. "Anyway, to do her job effectively, she played that cliché. Apparently, it made her more likable and approachable with her clients and so forth. It wasn't her personality at all, I learned that after working with her for some time, but it was useful. And I worked in her office as her assistant for, well, it was more than a year. But at the job interview, I realized she was lying to me—I didn't call her on it, but she was lying to me about the job to make it look better. About two months later, I realized I hated her because she used me as a tool to make her life better, and treated me like a tool."

He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "About four months in, I realized working at that job was killing me, or at the very least, the worse thing I could do to my health, since I'd given up drinking, smoking and anonymous sex," he told her, with a quick look in his right eye that suggested the final item was his injecting some humor into the story. "I knew I had to leave. But do you know what I realized six months in?"

Kanna raised an eyebrow.

"I was starting to despise my Afro-American colleagues. The women mostly, but bigotry is never rational or logical. And I realized why: I hated my supervisor so much that it was starting to cloud my perception of reality. You see, one of the lessons from this story was that bigotry, prejudice is subversive. It cloaks itself in shadows and enters the mind clandestinely. I hated sassy black women, and among the older generation anyway, there were such women in Georgia. I had no reason to though—every other such women, really anyone else I knew was genuinely kind to me, with one or two exceptions. It was my boss, who played that role, who drove me identify and hate."

His face twisted up. "God, I hated that woman more than anyone else, even today. She used to punish me for failing to ask questions, then the next day punish me for asking _her _a question. She threatened me for not smiling enough at my desk. Things like that, that you could only get away with towards a young person out of a misguided sense of paternalistic 'wisdom'. I don't know about you, but I'd bite down on my service pistol before being _that _young again."

Clarkson paused and sat back. "What did you do?" she asked.

"I quit the job. Believe it or not, I didn't care for being a bigot, and why become a racist to suffer a job you hate further? The human mind isn't rational, it's organic—associations, duality, preconceptions, those are its bedrock."

"Did it work?"

Clarkson gave an uncharacteristic shrug. "Again, the mind isn't logical. A few years later, when I was in Lake Victoria—this was before the _Speciali _became a thing—I had to choose between a junior officer's commission and marrying the woman from Nairobi that I cared for. _She _was black, but she wasn't what you'd call sassy. There were no sassy young people in my generation, it was an outdated stereotype that only existed in romantic comedies and pulp literature."

"And you chose the commission?"

He momentarily gave her a sad look. "Didn't we all?"

"So racism is subversive. What was the other lesson?"

"What?"

"You said 'one of the lessons' sir."

Clarkson pondered that briefly. "If someone offers you a job an hour after an interview, demand time to think about it. If they refuse, tell them to take their job and _shove it_," he explained confidently. "More a vocational lesson than a philosophical one, and one I learned the hard way. Anyone who presents you with that choice doesn't have your best interests at heart, or any of your interests for that matter. That includes the military." He frowned. "I'm not that good a pilot. I have experience, but I can't compete with you youngsters when it comes to maneuvers and ferocity, that's just a biological fact. The reason I'm still doing this job is because I learned to be selfish, to care about myself. Our culture, and this career, breeds self-sacrificial lambs among the young, because we've always held there's an unlimited supply of young people we can throw into the meat grinder. Young people fight all the wars, after all."

Kanna opened her mouth to object when he interrupted her. "Trust me, it's the dirty little secret of middle age: the old eat the young. I guess since we birthed and raised them, it's easy to justify paying them two-thirds what we pay _real _people, like what women were paid during capitalism." He chuckled. "Or so I think. Maybe I'm just an older man with crazy delusions."

Rather gregariously, Clarkson presented her with the magazine he had been holding. "Here: get an opinion that makes sense, from a professional paid to do just that." He gestured with a motion of his head. "I think your flight lieutenant is awake. You can float back to your seat and pretend this old man never shared any of his strange, radical delusions with you."

In his window seat, Walker ignored the glowing blue orb of Earth as it grew beneath him, keeping his attention on the fold-out tray in front of him, with a single piece of paper and a pen sitting atop it, waiting. Kanna, apparently up and about, had squeezed back into the adjacent seat, taking care to keep her elbows from jabbing him as she read a magazine copy of _L'Alba Nero. _OZ's military publication maintained both a daily newspaper and a weekly magazine, the latter being more focused on interest stories than general armed forces news.

Kanna's violet eyes peered at him briefly. "Interested, _Tai-i_?"

"No, I was just wondering, you seem rather calm. I thought this would be your first reentry."

Kanna raised an eyebrow. "I'd fought in Outer Space before." She leaned towards him, putting the magazine aside. "I think…maybe you're thinking of Dac."

Walker stared at her, his vacant expression making her more than a little uncomfortable. "Tai-i?"

"No, you're right," he said finally. "I'd forgotten, sorry about that."

Kanna cleared her throat nervously. "There's a great photo spread actually, take a look."

"Really, I'm…" he began as Kanna flipped to a particular page and stuffed the magazine into his face. Walker took it, rubbed his eyes, and looked: as she said, there was a professional-quality two-page photo spread of the pilots from the 1st Force Reconnaissance Battalion, as First Recon was formally known, just after the fall of L1-D-120. Flattening out the magazine on the tray, in the center were the forty-two still-active duty pilots in the battalion. In a separate frame to the right was full-body photograph of Flight Lieutenant Anton Petrosyan, as the caption identified him, a tall, handsome man with dark hair who cut an impressive figure in his hunter greens, arms behind his back and boots together. In a separate frame to the left was another full-body photograph, this of someone he recognized: Squadron Commander Ogasawara Emi, in formfitting hunter greens herself. Her face was clear of her famed war paint, her long, thick hair combed as straight as she could manage, assuming a less military posture: chin raised, chest stuck out, right hand on her hip by her ceremonial katana, a familiar expression of mild contempt on her face.

Kanna studied Walker, in turn studying the two pages, albeit not overtly staring at any particular part. "It's a good photo, huh?"

Walker looked up, matching her grin with an unamused but harmless stare. A tone could be heard over the cabin speakers and a voice announced, "_Attention all passengers. We will be performing the burn for our final approach and de-orbit shortly, followed by our spacecraft-aircraft transition. Please ensure your belongings are secure and your seatbelts are fastened, as well as returning your tray tables to their upright position. Flight crew, begin pre-reentry checklist._"

Folding the magazine, Walker handed it back to Kanna, cleared his tray and folded it up against the seat in front of him. "How are the other two?"

She glanced across the aisle: in the other two seats in their row, F/O Mazuri sat on the aisle, looking only mildly concerned. _He's conducted freefall interceptions in a mobile suit before, though at only a fraction of this altitude. He's probably comparing this to that,_ Walker considered. Next to him, Dac Bishop was pressing himself into his seat cushions, squeezing both armrests intensely, struggling to keep his eyes closed.

"If you're so afraid of reentry, why'd you take the window seat?" Mazuri asked, his voice betraying a small amount of worry.

"Shut the hell up, that's why!" Walker shook his head and covered his eyes with his right hand, and could feel the shuttle rolling lengthwise until Earth appeared to be above rather than below them, and began de-orbiting.

**III**

The resource satellite 25143 Itokawa had essentially vanished for several hours before the Space Forces Signal Corps—the extraterrestrial counterpart to the communications branch of the terrestrial military—determined beyond doubt that it, along with its mobile suit and naval presence, had been completely destroyed. They relayed all their available data to the General Staff on _Barge_, which tried to make sense of what had happened based on the limited evidence available, until Lieutenant Colonel Une returned from the armistice signing at L1-D-120 and Chief Engineer Villemont returned from the Marius Crater Works.

"So, what was in Major Cebotari's report?" Tubarov asked. He was genuinely curious, and had been at least been endeavoring to ingratiate herself with the commander-in-chief, if only to be kept in the loop on military intelligence. He could only count on Sedici for so much, after all.

"I'll explain later," Une assured them, as the two stood in one of the command rooms overlooking the hangar that stared the Mecurius and Vayeate prototypes.

"It pertained to the Gundam pilots, didn't it?" He knew that much, but again, he tried to avoid hostility. "If so, we may need to act on it urgently, even if we do have three pilots in captivity."

"You saying I'm too lenient, Tubarov?" she asked, half-teasing and half-threatening.

"No, I'm saying it's too risky to be depending on the abilities of those pilots," he defended himself.

"Those associated with the Gundams still hold a great deal of value. In fact, Zero-One's pilot has already mastered operating the Mecurius. I hate to admit it, but he may have skills exceeding any pilot in OZ."

"Again, relying on him is too risky."

"_Don't worry,_" she ordered. "With the colonies arming themselves, the pilots are completely isolated. They can't make any careless moves."

"With mass production of Mercurius and Vayeate ready to go underway at Luna, I really feel there's no need for them any longer."

Une sneered. "Why do you have it out for them, Mr. Tubarov? You shouldn't be too proud of your jealousy."

He had to resist rolling his eyes. "That's absurd, why would I be…" he began before an alarm tone cut them off. Immediately, every monitor in the room was flooded with new data.

"_Colonels, sirs, we've made our determination of what happened to 25143 Itokawa and can confirm that the resource satellite and its associated forces have completely vanished._" Une had been briefed on the early findings on the _Europa_, but had dismissed it as a communications failure.

_Damn, I was looking forward to disciplining Usachov_. "Is this an unknown enemy?"

"_Affirmative, ma'am. Our determination is that it was, in fact, a previously unknown Gundam mobile suit we have no data on._"

"Another Gundam?"

"_To repeat, all current data suggests that the resource satellite and all personnel associated with it vanished coinciding with a Gundam attack._"

"If communications were lost, what leads you to believe it was a Gundam?" Tubarov asked suspiciously.

"W_e've received a two-part unencoded EHF transmission from the responsible pilot—the first was an audio file where the speaker claimed they would destroy the Colony L1-E-063 next. It was followed by an encrypted image file, classified in nature._"

After a brief delay, the transmitted file appeared—a high-resolution reproduction of a design blueprint, its text and numerical data removed, leaving only the schematic designs of a mobile suit. It replaced a diagram displaying E-063's typical colony torus layout and its orbit on the far side of Luna from 25143 Itokawa, along with a projected flight plan for the Gundam.

"_We're certain that this is the Gundam Unit Zero-Four_."

"He must mean this as a declaration of war," Tubarov growled.

"Very well—we'll respond by sending the Mercurius and Vayeate to Colony E-063."

"No, Lady Une, we should send the mobile doll company we have in reserve," he objected.

"They will remain in garrison in the Lunar Military District," she countered. "Prepare Mercurius and Vayeate for deployment!"

"But…Lady Une," Tubarov tried again.

"If properly used, those two mobile suits have greater firepower than a mobile doll company. Send them out, Tubarov!"

"Uh…right…" he muttered, wavering as Une left. He knew there was no changing her mind, and in truth, he could barely argue her decision wasn't better given the suddenness of it. Scowling, he sat at a crew station and stared at the Gundam design that the pilot had sent. He was no fan of the colonies, but that didn't change the situation at hand. _In the end of the day, all of this is the fault of the colonies—or more charitably, a few shortsighted radicals who upon losing decided they'd watch the whole world burn with them—but we may very well have to save the colonies from themselves. _

"Colonel Villemont, sir." An officer had entered through the sliding bulkhead door Une had exited though.

The chief engineer looked over at the approaching officer. "Has the reason for targeting E-063 been determined yet? By either yourselves or the Military Commissariat?"

"No sir. We're still waiting on an analysis on the destruction of the resource satellite." The officer looked far more concerned than Une had. "Sir, should we prepare an additional response on our part? That resource satellite was a military facility, but…"

He grunted an interruption. "Did the Ambassador not leave any further instructions?"

"I'm afraid not, sir."

"Typical. If the Gundam pilot did not make his intentions clear to the general public, I doubt us causing a panic will make him less inclined to carry out his threat. If anything, it may only escalate his aggression. Inform the Space Forces General Staff to suppress this—no other military units are to intercept the Gundam. Did they already order an evacuation of that colony?"

"Yes sir!" The officer shrank. "I'm sorry sir, it's just, I…"

"No, it's no matter—we'd have to evacuate it either way, there's no choice in the matter. Continue with the evacuation protocols, and have orders ready to go out to the civil defense headquarters in every colony in First Lagrange Point. Until then, none of this leaves the General Staff." As he stood up, another thought entered his mind. "How many Leo troops are on standby in the district right now?"

"The Entire Third Company was about to begin exercises and could be launched immediately. Fourth Company's Squadron 2 was also standing by, to play a surprise aggressor role in the exercise, so they're ready as well."

"Have them return to their carriers and prepare to launch. If the Ambassador doesn't want manned troops sent out, she can countermand the order herself!" he ordered.

"Yes sir, right away, sir." The officer seemed relieved—as he should. The rank-and-file in the officer corps might not have cared for Tubarov, but at least someone was behaving like a leader.

"I'm not leaving those two alone, whatever the case may be. And find Flight Officer Nichol, he should be on _Barge_ with Major Bremer. Bring him here immediately."

Having pushed the earlier events of the armistice out of her mind, Une paced through the corridors of _Barge _alone. _So, the Military Commissariat's blind guessing was correct. _The shapely officer from Operation 'Citadel' that had previously briefed her, who was now on her way to Earth to make the same report to Treize Khushrenada, had told her two things.

First, that all but one of the Gundam designers in captivity had been investigated and associated with a single pilot. The third designer, the German-speaking "_Herr Doktor _S" with his extremely crude prosthetic nose, had been linked to Flight Officer Barton, the Colonial _wunderkind_. Ergo, Eva Cebotari warned, Trowa Barton was possibly the pilot of Unit Zero-Three, just as Tycho Nichol had wildly theorized earlier. Une recalled her outlining it simple, plain-spoken terms that even Une would find difficult to dismiss.

Most of Cebotari's comrades in the Military Commissariat would have taken a more accusative tone. Eva didn't seem to care, but nonetheless, Une had her pride. _Maybe I always knew Nichol was right. _

Second, if correct, that theory left only one Gundam pilot unconfirmed—the pilot of Unit Zero-Four. The fate 25143 Itokawa seemed to support that. Again, the information was Une's to do with what she pleased.

_"I'm only a major, a mouthpiece_," she said, crossing her arms over her much-larger chest conceitedly. _"I hope you'll make your decision based on my comrades' findings." _

Une had considered all this previously, when Nichol shared his suspicions. _For once, I wish she had insisted._

Now, provided with a convincing argument, her mind wandered to the age difference. She was only four years older than the youngest of the pilots, roughly the same difference between her age and that of Major Cebotari.

"So they've kept fighting, those youths responsible for the changing times."

**IV**

Oliver Bradley, wearing the uniform of a Space Forces flight lieutenant, cursed his luck. He then cursed Outer Space and, for good measure, that particularly useless Colonial pilot Hilde Schbeiker too.

"We've finished evacuating the civilian population," the navy's liaison informed him, a full lieutenant who had bravely elected to stay behind on E-063, and was now in the colony's military command center. Ordinarily, he would've outranked Bradley, but with his very recent promotion that was no longer the case.

"With its stealth abilities, the enemy could attack from any directions. All forces remain on alert," Bradley ordered. The steady stream of activities, small as they were, kept his calm. "Have each section report in."

"Affirmative sir," a junior officer standing in front of him. "All torus sections, report in."

"_Section One, everything's under control._"

"_Section Two, all under control._"

Each of the eight sections in the torus signed off. Inside the torus, the artificial sky had been deactivated, hardly necessary in a ghost colony like that. E-063's tilled fields, a cornerstone of its agribusiness economy along with its orbital agriculture pods, sat unattended, and its cityscape unlit.

"_All Mobile Suit Troops, remember that this colony is equipped with a full beam cannon defensive array on the outer surface, and is capable of defending itself from attack in any direction. Use that to your advantage, but watch for friendly fire_," Bradley ordered the pilots outside—more Earthling than Colonial than the Space Leo Troops inside, but still rather green.

The naval liaison quietly said what Bradley was thinking. "I guess OZ doesn't want to throw away a half-battalion of veteran pilots."

Bradley signed, but didn't respond. The liaison, who seemed unaffected by all this, turned to him. "You ready?"

"Not as ready as them, but yes," he hissed in admission. He wouldn't have accepted the promotion otherwise. It was the waiting he really hated, but he wouldn't have to wait much longer.

"Incoming transmission over THF," a communications officer announced. "It's being bounced over satellites, trying to ascertain its origins."

"Just put the damn thing through," Bradley groaned. "I want _Barge _to see everything that happens."

"Yes sir."

As he feared, a young boy's voice came through. "_Calling Colony E-063, I am about to eliminate the entire colony. There's no sense fighting back, evacuate at once. Repeat, evacuate the colony at once._"

"Sir, we have a heading on a bogey now, it's almost directly above our dorsal facing!"

"Yes, I see it," Bradley growled, as a telescope caught the mobile suit finally, a tiny white speck at current magnification, which sensor officers were trying to correct upon. "You can mark it as a hostile."

"Yes sir."

The troops outside were not so composed. "_The Gundam, it-it's here!_"

With some work, they magnified further on the Gundam—its resemblance to Unit Zero-One was undeniable, but there were visual differences, with its massive beam cannon raised above its ornately-designed head. "All callsigns, move to intercept immediately! All beam cannons, acquire firing solutions if possible!"

"Gun crews report firing solutions, sir."

_Suicide or not, I don't intend to go down without a fight. _"Open fire!"

Twenty double-barreled warship-class beam turrets able to fire above the torso's dorsal facing opened fire at full power, and the Gundam broke from its position and maneuvered away. To his surprise, it then fired its vernier thrusters at high power and dropped itself less than a hundred kilometers ahead of the colony's orbit—those beam cannons moved to respond, while a nearby squadron of OZ-06SMS 'Space Leos' moved to engage. Six mobile suits were destroyed when the Gundam split its beam rifle into two separate units and fired in either direction while rotating on an axis. Two more mobile suits, moving under the cover of their destroyed comrades, were hit by vulcan fire and sent routing, though they were not strictly destroyed. Another four, attempting to flank, were caught in a torrent of charged particles from one of the beam cannons.

"Heavy losses, sir! Half of either of the two squadrons engaging have been wiped out!"

"How many times do you think it can fire those beam cannons?" Bradley asked the naval liaison.

"If the Unit Zero-One is any indication, three times each?" he speculated. He was Bradley extended three fingers on his white-gloved left hand, perhaps unconsciously. By now, the remaining mobile suits had regrouped for another attack, and the Gundam was targeted by almost half of the beam cannons on the torus when it reunited its beam cannons into a single weapon, twinkled briefly and then fired directly into the colony.

The navy liaison saw Bradley lower two raised fingers—consciously this time, as he kept his middle finger raised at the primary display defiantly—and very little after that. Precious evidence was available for full-scale space colony destruction, and none by a single beam cannon blast. No one was sure what exactly to expect.

When the beam fire struck the torus just over the equator, it had the effect of a bunker-busting thermonuclear missile. Immediately, all beam turrets ended their own fire: the entire torus began glowing brightly from the point of impact onwards. Everyone in the command center was knocked off their feet, but that was the least of their problems as the cityscape shook harder than during the most violent earthquake in human history. Then the beam penetrated completely through the torus superstructure through to the other half of the wheel, annihilating anything in its path. The atmosphere was dispersed too fast to ignite; whole city blocks squeezed against each other into powder while others lurched inwards and outwards. It wasn't over: as structural integrity was completely lost, the inertia of the torus' gravity-providing spin wrenched the wheel apart entirely just as the bracing arm burned into nothing. As its stores of thermonuclear fuel and oxygen burned away, the torus immediately did the same. In under half a minute, a multi-million tonne space colony was turned into cinders.

The pilot of the Gundam, internally labeled XXXG-00W0 by its creators at the Winner Corporation, surveyed his handiwork once the all-direction display in his panoramic cockpit began to dim, having committed a criminal act unparalleled in the history of warfare. Once he could see again, pilot Quatre Raberba Winner could see something inside his closed helmet, then spoke to himself aloud.

"That's funny—it seems I have tears in my eyes, but I'm not at all sad."

**V**

Tubarov Villemont was very pleased that he didn't need actual officers from the Military Commissariat on this occasion.

"Play the video from inside the common cell."

"Yes sir." The junior officer commenced the video feedback as Flight Officer Barton, joined by two men from his security detail in the Lunar Military District, entered the common cell shared by the three captive Gundam pilots. One of the pilots began to object after he spoke.

"Speed through this, get to after he leaves."

"Yes sir." In accelerated time, he watched as Barton sucker-punched the pilot in the gut, discreetly passing something to him—not visible to the two enlisted men through no fault of their own, but clearly caught on camera from above. He left with the pilot of Gundam-01 and the door shut behind them.

"_I don't think that guy was acting—we have to assume he really has betrayed us._"

"_We don't need to worry about that, he's one guy we can trust._"

"_What makes you so sure?_" After that, Gundam-02's pilot activated the handheld video projector, small enough to conceal in his palm, that Barton had smuggled to him and aimed it at the wall. After a second of auto-focusing, the camera could make out the schematic data that the remaining captives were watching: new Gundam designs, two of them. It also made out the audio outputted by the projector, as the second pilot grinned like a maniac at the pilot of Gundam-05.

"_Duo Maxwell and Wufei Chang: this was given to me by Master O. Use it to kill time._"

Tubarov gestured for the video to be paused. "Son of a gun," he muttered humorously.

"They're not very subtle, are they, Colonel?"

"That, or they've never heard of CCTV surveillance," he growled, holding back his laughter. "And the squadrons sent to intercept that Gundam?"

"Audio only, sir, but we have their point-to-point radio communications."

"That'll be fine. Bring it up."

The officer prompt up two separate audio recordings, digitally synced to the time when the force left Marius Crater to hopefully intercept the Gundam. They both began with ambient noise.

"Go forward to when they left the shuttle and switched to their radios."

"Yes sir."

"_What is this?_" the Gundam pilot in Barton's custody asked.

"_The double-carrier for the Vayeate and the Mecurius. We've got these two, and Duo and Wufei's Gundams will both be upgraded. I'm sure the pilot of that new Gundam is Quatre_," Barton explained plainly as the officer began searching the name. "_The time may have come. Once we join up with Quatre, we'll strike at OZ_."

"_How can you be sure he's our ally? Assumptions lead to mistakes_," the Gundam pilot asked.

"So does carelessness," Tubarov smirked.

"_Besides, we're piloting OZ's mobile suits, right? We may have to engage him. If he is a strong enough ally, we might have the combined strength to fight OZ as you say, but if his Gundam lacks power, we'll end up destroying it,_" the Gundam pilot pointed out rather apathetically. "_It's to our advantage for you to remain infiltrated in OZ until _you_ can kill Treize Khushrenada._"

Barton gave an unexpected chuckle. "_You knew all along?_"

"_Whatever the case, we'll have a better idea after this battle._" It seemed plainly evident that they meant either engaging the Gundam, or killing the troops that had accompanied them.

"End the audio," Tubarov ordered before looking over his shoulder. Behind him, Tycho Nichol stood at ease, a look of great consternation on his face. Tubarov grinned, by contrast. "Well, Mr. Nichol?"

"I see why you sent those Leo squadrons out with them.'

"L1-E-063 has probably been destroyed by now. The same could be said about those Leo troops very soon. Despite my reputation, I'm not particularly keen on throwing away lives, but I think you of all people would appreciate a necessary sacrifice."

He continued before Nichol could answer. "Of course, if Lady Une had simply agreed to my recommendation to send out out those mobile dolls reserves, we could have avoided all this. _As usual_," he growled.

"And you're convinced she knows?"

"She's delusional, not stupid, Mr. Nichol. She always has been. I used to wonder what kind of man Treize Khushrenada was to keep her company, but I think I know now." Tubarov looked upwards, then gestured at the CCTV camera in the corner. "You know what needs to be done, Mr. Nichol."

"Yes sir, Chief Engineer," he replied with apparent reluctance.

"We recall those troops, and the Gundam pilots will murder every last one of them. This new Gundam completed a Lunar orbit, it's not unlikely his next target will be in the same area. But we can't very well evacuate a dozen colonies. So whatever his next target is will likely be populated."

The junior officer spoke up. "Sirs, the Military Commissariat has a few theories, we can expect Barton to be at the most likely next target." He brought up six more colonies, including one in a rarer double-torus configuration, which he highlighted.

"What makes them think it's this one?"

"Nothing concrete yet, sir, but it is connected with the major shipping and construction conglomerate out of L4, the Winner Corporation."

"Why not attack _Barge _or our legation at C-102? The resource satellite and that militarized colony, E-063, were both connected to Wincomfleet," Tubarov speculated. "It doesn't matter, without the time of a half-revolution around Luna, a complete evacuation can't be completed, nor can any additional forces be scrambled aside from the fastest cruisers diverted from D-120—and they still won't get there in time, probably."

He crossed his arms over his dark blue Renaissance-style Foundation regalia. "Who knows, perhaps Barton's squadrons will actually do their _duty_," he said, putting heavy emphasis on the last word of the sentence.

"And myself, sir?" Nichol asked reluctantly.

Tubarov grinned uncomfortably again. "Return to _Barge _and debrief Bremer. He's always been reliable if nothing else. We'll be observing radio silence on our end soon, so wait for the signal—trust me, you'll know it when you see it. You may be able to save lives yet."

"And you, sir?"

"I don't mind getting my hands dirty." He glanced at the small monitor still relaying video from the common cells shared by the Gundam designers and Gundam pilots. "In more ways than one."

Nichol took several seconds to respond. For a brief moment, Tubarov feared that, against all logic, he'd refuse. He then snapped his heels together and stood at attention. "Sir, yes sir!

When he left, Nichol sighed deeply. That had been a gamble. "Connect me with the master-at-arms please."

"Right away, Colonel Villemont."

The connection took a few seconds. "_This is Chief Petty Officer Duro, go ahead, sir._"

"Chief Petty Officer, am I correct in assuming that your Space Forces naval detachment is in charge of the 'special prisoners' being held in the district at Marius Crater?" he asked, making it plainly clear what 'special prisoners' he was referring to.

"_Yes sir, Colonel._"

"Then I'd like you to join me for something. It won't take long, and you won't need a full detail—one additional man should be plenty."

"_Understood, Colonel, I'll be there in less than ten minutes._"

Tubarov nodded and padded the junior officer on the shoulder after gesturing for a disconnection—he always liked it when people behaved competently.

**VI**

Walker couldn't help himself—as soon as he stepped out onto airstair that unfolded from the shuttle after it touched down at Chièvres Air Base, he took an unusually deep breath, filling his lungs full of air. Towering behind him as he climbed down, Kanna did the same, her huge chest rising and falling under her uniform.

He almost laughed, first at her, than at himself. "You know, our shuttle's air exchange resumed somewhere in the troposphere, I'm certain."

Kanna grinned triumphantly, hands on her hips. "Oh, I know."

"Come on, Kanna, some of us want back on _terra firma_," Dac interjected, trying to squeeze past her.

"Remind me why you joined the Specials again?" Kanna teased over her shoulder.

As the two squabbled, Walker put one boot and then another onto the tarmac beneath him and looked around. Chièvres AFB, not far outside Brussels, was another ancient European air base from the days of the North Atlantic Treaty and a more divided world, and had all the associated trappings. Now, a dozen OZ-07AMS 'Aries' mobile suits stood outside one of the larger hangars as an airlifter taxied past them. Another military shuttle, this one a larger transorbital model, was making its final approach. The smell of burning rubber and aviation fuel was more prevalent than the scent of the surrounding woodlands, and he could make out the unmistakable chatter of a military airfield.

_I should really build that model Kanna gave me. _It wasn't Luxembourg, but it was much closer to home.

"Now what?" Mazuri asked, shoving Dac out his way as Kanna kept teasing him.

Walker turned. "I imagine we wait, Ajay."

"Stupendous," he muttered.

"You know, I really don't mind admitting, I'm glad to be back on Earth."

"I bet you are, sir," Mazuri muttered.

"I even miss the noise," he admitted. "There's something to be said about the dead silence of Outer Space, I don't think it's normal for humans."

"You don't say, sir?"

Walker cupped one of his ears, smiling. "You hear that?"

Mazuri rolled his eyes cupped an ear. "Sounds like aircraft, sir."

"That's not just any aircraft. That's a shuttle capable of supersonic flight, passenger liner. Probably a Tupolev," Walker said, closing his eyes and beginning to picture it.

"Like the one Treize Khushrenada uses?" Ajay replied.

"Well, yes, maybe…" Walker asked, turning to him. He saw Mazuri pointing in another direction, and turned just in time to see a very familiar spaceplane touch down, in white-and-blue diplomatic livery. After it gracefully if loudly touched down and began taxing, it turned to reveal the familiar two-letter insignia of the Order of the Zodiac, both terrestrial and extraterrestrial forces, removing any doubt from Walker's mind.

_It deployed drogue chutes. It must have come from orbit. _Walker didn't notice Kanna running up to him to get a look herself. Rather than descending on the formation of Aries troops, as expected, the shuttle instead taxied to an isolated motor pool only a hundred meters away, by a pair of limousines surrounded by large, well-dressed enlisted men.

"Was Treize in Outer Space? For the armistice?" Kanna asked finally.

Walker shook his head. "No, I don't think His Excellency attended in person."

A portable stairway was pushed up the forward-most cabin doors which then opened. Kanna, with the best vision of the four, squinted her violet eyes as barely a handful of passengers disembarked, all but one of them in typical private bodyguard suits. "Hey, it's that babe from the inauguration of Seventh Division! From the Yuy Foundation."

"How can you tell?" Dac asked, shielding his eyes.

"Well, how many _bijin _do you know with only one eye open and wear high heels and cocktail dresses?"

Ajay patted Kanna on the shoulder. "I'm going to say something none of you would expect from me, so brace yourselves: forget the woman in the cocktail dress, look who's getting out of the limousine."

By then, Walker had rooted through his luggage and found his monocular. Peering through it, he looked in time to see a huge man he recognized as Master Aircrew Serrati, bodyguard and adjutant to Treize Khushrenada, circle around and open one of the rear doors. It was less surprising then when he saw His Excellency himself exit, and greet the woman by kissing her hand. The woman remained very still, and the two exchanged words more informally, over what Walker wondered.

"Okay, sir, this hero worship of yours is starting to go a little too far," Mazuri muttered, while pulling a pair of military-issue binoculars from his own luggage. Upon hanging them from his neck, Dac took them from his hands and looked through himself to his aggravation.

"You know, for a woman with the worst lazy eye I've ever seen, she is _pretty _hot," Dac observed, lowering the binoculars from around Mazuri's neck, referring to her apparent ptosis.

"Agreed. What's-her-name…" Kanna began.

"Yuy, Shalua Yuy," Walker told them.

Ajay peered at Walker skeptically. "Sir, do you know her?"

Walker turned to see Mazuri staring at him, straight in the eye, and responded with an equally skeptical expression. "Excuse me?"

"Shalua Yuy, do you know her?"

"Why would I know someone from the Yuy Foundation?" Walker asked.

"That's not what I asked."

"Why would I know Shalua Yuy?" he countered.

"Well, it's not like you haven't met a lot of other sexy women," Mazuri countered, almost accusingly.

"_You_ know Kanna," Walker fired back. Kanna looked at the two and beamed, extremely pleased with herself.

"Hey, thanks!" she chirped jovially. "You know, after all the 'giantess' and 'amazon' talk I gotta' put up with, it's kinda' nice when someone mentions my amazing legs, butt and boobs," she jibed, not sounding entirely insincere. She picked up her luggage, threw it over one shoulder effortlessly, and turned towards the complex. "Take it in, boys."

Mazuri rolled his eyes hard enough to look like he might be harming himself. "The 'united front', as usual."

Walker was about to reiterate the fact that Mazuri knew the same women he did, by and large, but said nothing as they took their luggage. Dac quickly took off after Kanna, visibly tilting his head over and glancing at her.

"You know what Kanna, you _do _have a really nice butt. Muscular but nice."

"I told you. Why do you think all my civilian photos have me wearing spandex?" she asked, smacking herself through her white uniform trousers loudly.

"I honestly thought it was a martial arts thing," Dac admitted, causing Kanna to laugh loudly.

Walker remained behind, watching the limousine and its escorts leave in a tight formation. The ease he'd felt briefly upon returning to had gone, and he stashed his monocular back into his bag. He quickly followed after the three, one hand in his pocket, feeling the folded sheet of paper between his fingers.

**VII**

Units from the 3rd and 4th Company of the 11th Separate Colonial Space Mobile Suit Battalion had descended on the double-torus layout colony, the most populous in the region, now on full wartime alert. Motion-tracking surveillance satellites had followed the new Gundam entering via a utility access tunnel—from there, it vanished once again, tracked by city safety cameras that the military lacked access to.

A lone squadron entered in pursuit, unsure of its behavior. The Gundam had destroyed one space colony, another, more-populous, less-defended one seemed as likely a target. Why enter the first of the two tori when it was capable of destroying it from a hundred kilometers away?

Inside, the found the pilot behaving only more bizarrely: passing at a leisurely pace on-foot through a street between two office complexes, the Gundam rammed its double-barred beam cannon into a nearby office building, but did not fire. It then smashed the opposite building with its shield. It stomped over a public park. Petty but unpredictable behavior.

"_Hostile located! The Gundam is here!_" The three mobile suits, playing the role of combat engineer, immediately took vulcan fire after spotting the Gundam on the other side of a Ferris wheel. At those distances, autocannon fire was enough to cripple the mobile suits and force them to withdraw, upon which the Gundam blasted its way back out of the torus as abruptly as it had entered.

"_Quatre, this is Trowa! Can you hear me, Quatre?_"

On _Barge_, Une monitored the anti-Gundam taskforce—the pair of prototypes and Space Leo troops—along with the status of the colony on the overbridge. In turn, space fortress commander Bremer monitored Une, just as the General Staff had ordered him to do so. Her decision, once he'd learned it, had dismayed him—for some time, he'd dismissed the suspicions and accusations concerning Une as inter-service rivalry or resentment for your youth.

_Apparently, Une is exactly what everyone claimed she was. _Bremer kept his face as devoid of expression as he could manage. Nichol had come back with warnings, extreme threats soon proven timely. A minute ago, communications had stopped entirely from the Lunar Military District.

"We have no communications from Mr. Barton's Vayeate, or the Leo troops pursuing the Gundam," an officer announced.

"The whole unit, including Mercurius, may have been wiped out, ma'am."

"And the colony?"

"Observation reports that the colony has still be spared from any significant damage, ma'am."

Bremer couldn't take it much longer. Tuning out Une's usual barking, he turned and left for the exit as quietly as he could manage. It wasn't a moment too soon.

"One of the Leo motherships has reestablished communications—we're getting data on the new Gundam over the network now, ma'am."

"Good—have this sent to the Gundam designers in Marius Crater, they should be able to make something of it."

A hesitant pause from the lead communications officer. "But Colonel, at this very moment, we're unable to open communications with the Lunar Military District."

"What?"

Bremer walked away. _Tubarov's on the move. This is Nichol's signal. _He exhaled the second he was off the overbridge and grabbed another officer by the shoulder. "Have damage control—wait, have all crews on standby. But particularly damage control. And evacuate all personnel working on the outside." He twisted his lip. "And for God's sake, man, put on a normal suit."

The same orders Bremer had just issued were being repeated in different military installations throughout the Lunar Military District. In the No. 13 Marius Crater Factory Complex, Tubarov waited patiently, staring at the massive main hangar. Three lines of mobile suit motherships, each capable of carrying twelve mobile suits, rested peacefully.

"Chief Engineer Villemont, sir, we've just received orders from Fortress _Barge _to reopen our lines of communication. Your orders, sir?"

As both an acting-colonel in the OZ Space Forces Engineering Corps and, by extension, the branch's chief engineer and design officer, Villemont was the _de facto _ranking officer on any military industrial facility on Luna.

"Ignore them. We have our orders from the military commission of the U.N.O.— and we _will_ continue to meet the prescribed production goals for mobile dolls. That's our foremost responsibility here."

The officer gave a prompt, capable nod and, just as ordered, remained by Tubaov's side. "Unrest in the Foundation, undisciplined human officers—now we enter the age wherein mobile dolls are our new warriors," he said loud before glancing briefly at his antique wristwatch, a memento from early in his military career, that still carried the insignia of the United Earth Sphere Alliance Armed Forces on its face.

"Are the 'special prisoners' still alive?"

"Yes sir. Should I summon the master-at-arms, sir?"

Tubarov turned to the officer, actually impressed: the second lieutenant was little more than a member on the military factory staff, but was apparently made up of tougher stuff than he looked. "No, that won't be necessary. If I wanted to have them shot, I would have done so. Sometimes it's worth the patience needed to keep your hands clean, Lieutenant."

"Yes sir."

"Those would-be terrorists will be dead in thirty minutes, the old men in half that. Remember, patience."

"I see, sir."

The tone sounded over the public address system. "_Chief Engineer, sir—Space Fortress _Barge _has engaged a burn. It's beginning a transfer to put itself within Luna's sphere of influence, sir!_"

"See? Patience, Lieutenant." He looked up at the intercom. "Thank you, Captain. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about, they've probably just received orders for a new orbit. I'm sure Lady Une will request a channel again shortly, put her through that time, and then have the installation end radio silence. Convey my requests to Lieutenant Colonel Sedici to do the same."

"_Yes sir._"

"Colonel Une thinks she's Treize Khushrenanda. Too bad for her, I've faced Treize before, and I learn from my mistakes."

The junior lieutenant looked at him warily but nodded. _I'm not going to throw away lives in a mutiny. I'll let you do that for me, Lady Une. _

**VIII**

"Mr. Tal, has there been any word from Luna?"

Flight Officer Tal had accompanied Duke Dermail Catalonia to the _Palais Royal de Bruxelles_, the Royal Palace in the heart of Brussels, the residence not of the King of the Belgians, but of the Romefeller Foundation's Executive Board. He'd never seen the Duke so edgy—on the contrary, Tal was usually jittery and nervous around His Grace.

"No, Your Grace."

Duke Dermail nodded and remained sitting behind his desk, the workstation of countless European monarchs before him. From his own, much newer but smaller desk by the far wall, Tal carefully put a stack of envelopes into a drawer before turning back to him. "Your Grace, sir, is anything bothering you?"

Dermail gave him a wary look before standing and touching his chin under his beard. "I suppose there's no harm telling you what you may learn for yourself in short order—I believe my grandnephew, Treize, is going to tender his resignation at the coming summit."

At first the statement didn't really mean anything to Talik, who stood behind his desk processing it. "I'm sorry, resign, Your Grace?"

Dermail sighed. "He may intend to step down as commander-in-chief of OZ," he repeated slowly.

Then Tal understood, and some of the color visibly drained from his face. "Why, why would he do that, Your Grace? Why? _Why_?"

"Treize has always done too much thinking for his own good," Dermail muttered. "If he does, I'll be curious to hear his reasoning behind it in the wake of such success in Outer Space, but I'm more worried about the immediate consequences his actions might have on the military."

Tal understood that—there was no immediately clear order of succession in the event of the commander-in-chief's departure or incapacitation. The most obvious replacement for him was Lieutenant Colonel Une, a notion that made Tal feel ill.

Dermail seemed to catch on that Tal was thinking of possibly the least-liked officer in the entire armed forces. "And yes, I'm concerned how our Ambassador to Outer Space might respond as well, as is the military commission for the United Nations Organization." He gave another sigh, this one older and more tired sounding. "I really don't see what he'd have to gain from doing that, but it's a very real possibility that Treize will leave the military and leave the rest of us to pick up the subsequent pieces."

"Well, Your Grace, he must..." Tal began before immediately shutting up.

The Duke stared at him. "Go on," he half-ordered, half-encouraged. "Say your mind, young man."

"Your Grace, His Excellency must have some very good reason to resign, if…he did so," Tal managed to stammer out.

He raised an eyebrow. "Treize and his childhood friend, Zechs Merquise…they always thought too much."

Tal sat back down, slightly ashamed of himself, before remembering something. "Your Grace, may I ask why you were asking about Luna then? Isn't Lady Une stationed on _Barge_?"

The Duke gave a very unexpected snort. "My dear boy, Luna is our canary in the coal mine."

Less than fifty kilometers away, at Chièvres Air Base, the three other pilots of Walker Flight waited in the main lobby for their commander to finish a phone call. Kanna at least occupied herself with courier-delivered orders, while Dac and Mazuri were forced to preoccupy themselves with periodically pushing each other's shoulders as they sat.

At one of the four public terminals in the middle of the lobby, Walker waited with the handset a half-arm length from his face, as his younger sister screamed hysterically at him for waiting to until he'd arrived back on Earth to contact her in Luxembourg. Glancing back at the others briefly, he sighed and looked back at the handset, waiting for a chance to explain himself.

After being shoved away by Mazuri another time, Dac gestured to Walker. "Right now, Aretha—Walker's little sister—is probably losing her _mind_ over how irresponsible he's been. I bet she's bringing up Mrs. Walker too, and what a horrible son he is."

"You pay the price," Mazuri muttered. "Or how does that American saying go? Behind every successful man…"

"There's a younger sister who wants to ring his neck," Dac finished for him.

Mazuri laughed. "You're right—I can't actually see the flight lieutenant actually physically involved with a woman he wasn't predestined by birth to be related to."

Kanna looked up from thin stack of documents. "Really? What about back on D-120?" she asked suggestively.

"I didn't say he had no musical talent, I said…"

"Or are you just jealous of that short girl, what's-her-name…Nabiki?"

Dac was grinning from ear to ear while Mazuri feigned astonishment. "'Jealous…of…Walker', you say these words, Kanna, but they don't make any actual sense. Perhaps you've put them in the wrong order?"

Kanna grinned too, flicking her nose with her right thumb before looking over her shoulder as Walker returned, looking largely unaffected by the twenty minutes of shouting he'd endured.

"How did it go?" Kanna asked in a sing-song tone of voice, turning in her seat, arms between her legs.

"Very well, I think."

"Well, that's a lie." Dac paused. "Sorry I meant, that's a lie _sir_."

Walker ignored him. "We have our orders—leave Chièvres AFB for the divisional headquarters at Leopoldsburg and remain on standby for further orders. There's a summit in Brussels hosted by the Romefeller Foundation, that's what all those VIP_s _were here for, all veteran units from 'Citadel' are ordered to attend."

"Hurray, more medals," Kanna said with a surprising amount of unconvincingly feigned enthusiasm. Walker nodded in agreement.

"Sounds fun," Mazuri muttered in a tone that Walker couldn't tell was immediately sarcastic or not.

"Do you think they're going to disband the Seventh Division?" Kanna asked.

"I did, but now there's been no further sign. Practically all the pilots from our company and others have been sent to Belgium and put on standby, it almost felt like they were converting us to an airborne division, except…"

"Except what?"

Sitting down, Walker remained silent before putting his hands together. "I don't know. I tried to contact my mother in Ontario but she didn't pick up—time difference, I suppose. While I waited, I browsed the 'Net…there are a lot of strange rumors coming out of L1, not out of Area 'D' but on the periphery. Some sort of mass mobilization of the civil defense and emergency fleets, or something."

"Maybe an industrial accident? A meteoroid impact on a colony?"

"I really don't know," Walker repeated before standing up. "Well, come on. There's plenty of buses to the HQ in Leopoldsburg, apparently that's where all the troops are being sent."

"Including Colonel Khushrenada?" Mazuri ventured.

"I hope so," Walker repeated. "I still have my reports to file, I'm not above bypassing the bureaucracy when possible. And I have my resignation to think about," he said.

Dac stopped in his footsteps as the three proceeded onwards towards the exit. "Wait, what resignation?"

**IX**

"Colonel Une, Marius Crater will be entering our bombardment range shortly. Gunners are formulating their firing solutions," a gunnery officer on the overbridge announced, while magnified footage of the Marius Crater and its associated above-ground complexes came into view under the hexagon-pattern of a naval digital gun sight, individual polygons lighting up with confirmed structures.

"Ma'am, a company of mobile doll troops are being launched from the Marius Crater garrison, already in attack formation. Attempting to confirm the unit…"

"Don't bother," Une muttered. She knew it was the unit held in reserve, the one that Tubarov asked be sent after the Gundam.

The duty officer rose from his station. "Ma'am, communications with the Lunar Military District have been restored. We're online with the Number Thirteen Factory!"

A gloating Tubarov appeared on a monitor display by the duty officer, who returned to his seat as Une approached. "_Hello, Lady Une. I don't believe _Barge _was scheduled for a transfer maneuver, was it?_" he gloated. "_That automated company will engage you on my orders._"

"A merciless weapon that would attack its comrades, is that what mobile dolls are?" Une retorted.

"_Precisely. We've already begun mass production of superb troops that will fulfill the Foundation's goal of restoring order on Earth_," he said plainly.

"Now I understand why His Excellency dislikes mobile dolls so much," she said with a smile.

Tubarov looked less impressed. "_Pardon?_"

"His Excellency loves humans. As such, he's fallen in love with the sacrifices of humans, of their lives. Death intensely appeals to human emotion, emotions that deny or affirm the worth of struggle. Such extreme emotions lead to equally-extreme decision, the very act of accepting death is the demeanor of a professional solider," she explained slowly.

"_Isn't that how the weak would think? As a matter of fact, we created these mobile dolls as an alternative to mortal soldiers, and we are about to build the battlefield of the future in which death is no longer a factor_," Tubarov countered with an uncharacteristic calm about him. As he finished, the monitor dimmed.

"We've lost communications again," the duty officer said, swallowing nervously.

"Put _Barge _on full alert," she ordered, turning and walking towards the exit. When the duty officer failed to respond, she glanced over her shoulder at him. "No, I suppose you won't, will you?"

The duty officer rose from his chair, standing at attention, visibly perturbed.

"Well, no matter. Major Bremer has your loyalty, but not that of the pilots. Not all of them anyway."

"Colonel, please, I…" the duty officer began as the bulkhead doors slid shut behind her.

What Une could count on—and did count on, as she donned a violet military-issue normal suit—was Squadrons 1 and 2 of the 3rd Aerospace Division. While most of Third Division's Leo mobile suits had been dispersed in low to medium Earth orbit on patrol, those squadrons had been retained on _Barge _under command of two flight lieutenants who were personally loyal to her. By the time she'd changed, its machines were fueled and its pilots, under Flight Lieutenant Z. Tildy and Flight Officer B. Krist, were ready to scramble. While _Barge _remained frozen, paralyzed in her mind, those pilots were ready to launch, and did.

"_Tubarov, don't you realize—it's not that mobile dolls transcend death. They're doing nothing more but merely replacing those who are afraid to die_."

Tubarov had been waiting in the Marius Crater command-and-control station when Une broadcasted her taunt. He gestured at the duty officer to reopen the channel. "One should not fight a war expecting to be defeated."

"_It's irrelevant whether you win or lose. Emotions are honed by continuing to fight, until the day comes where those lost souls are rewarded._"

Tubarov wasn't impressed. "I'm afraid I don't understand just what you're getting at."

"_And that is exactly why you and I will be enemies._"

"Really?" he asked quietly. "And here I thought it was because you've barely two dozen unlucky troops following you," he said, before gesturing for the line to be closed.

A single unmanned squadron from the 2nd Aerospace Division, left in reserve on Luna, was already on their way to meet them: once given the order, they immediately disregarded their IFF systems and engaged the Leo troops as though they were hostile targets. The skilled pilots in Squadron 1 and 2 were hardly a match for even those reserve mobile dolls, but even as they were quickly dispersed by lethal fire from the Taurii, four pilots and Une, took their opportunity.

"Remember the colonel's orders: _Barge _is a decoy, we're to infiltrate the Marius Crater Factory through the unguarded northwest passage by the proving grounds!" Krist ordered, switching his HUD to automatic air-to-ground.

"_Acknowledged, Oddball Actual!_"

"Oddball 1-3, Oddball 1-4, cover Lady Une! 1-2, you're with me!"

"_Affirmative!_"

"_Oddball 1-2 to Oddball Actual, Troublemaker 2-1 is leading a breakout!_"

"I see them!"

The Marius Crater C-and-C likewise tracked ten OZ-06SMS 'Space Leos' descended from low orbit over Luna and towards the proving grounds. And predicted flight paths appeared on the screens before him, Tubarov permitted himself to smile. "They know where our mobile dolls are situated. That's what makes this interesting."

A few OZ-01MD units had descended down with them—one confined on the surface, their advantage of maneuverability was lost, and Une and two machines from Oddball flight were able to destroy them. "Go! Secure the mobile doll production floor!" she ordered as she pulled the hatch release and grabbed the ascent and descent tether.

"_Where're you going, Colonel?_" Krist asked.

"I'm releasing the Gundam pilots! It's both what His Excellency and I want!" she told him while descending.

"_Wait, what? Colonel, are you…_" she heard him say before she switched off her radio with a smile.

At the other end of the basin, Troublemaker 2-1, 2-2 and 2-3 had blasted open the armored shutters over the proving ground entranceway and service lift. As expected, they found three mobile suits still stored in preparation for previously-scheduled proving ground exercises, still attached by cables to auxiliary power units in the ceiling. Tildy saw his target designator pop up: **UNKNOWN MOBILE UNIT**.

Tildy reached for the keys by an MFD and entered in a designation manually: OZ-02MD. The Virgos, large, black mobile suits with particularly bulky spherical shoulder pods and four planet defensor discs between each of them. They were armed only with a single forearm-mounted short-barreled beam cannon, but most unnervingly where their cockpit hatches should have been, there was just an armored, sealed command pod. The three mobile dolls flashed their monocameras, and turned their heads slightly, but otherwise did not move.

"_Troublemaker Actual, the enemy's not pursuing!_"

"_Acknowledged, then we'll hold this chokepoint and…_"

"_Flight Lieutenant!_"

"_What?_"

Of the trio of mobile dolls left in the service lift, the middle unit had slowly begun advancing towards them, followed soon by the machines to its left and right. "_Sir, these new mobile troops are already operating!_"

The center mobile doll raised its already-glowing beam cannon, and the other two soon followed suit. Between the three of them, they flooded the entranceway with supercharged particles, destroying the older Leos completely.

Une wasn't aware of the fates of either Tildy or Krist, or their pilots. She had taken advantage of the distraction they provided to sneak into the base's detention areas and locate the monitoring station for the district's eight 'special prisoners', currently down to seven. _Just as I thought—Tubarov left them to choke on their own breath. More subtle than I would have expected from him._

"I just hope I'm not too late," she said before reactivating the air circulation system and the occupied common cells gradually filled with oxygen, before she heard a pistol's safety being disengaged behind her.

"Even if they're not," Tubarov told her. "We'd be executing them anyway."

_That would explain the absence of guards. _"Then I'd ask you include me as well. In the past, failure meant certain death in OZ," she asked, before opening the common cell doors. _Of course Tubarov wanted me to come—he wanted all this. It'll give him all the justification he could ever need for the Commissariat or the Collegium. _"Shoot me, Tubarov. Confirm what you believe to be just."

The much older man clad in the robes of a medieval scholar stared down the sights of an outdated Alliance service pistol. Une had fully anticipated a long, winding diatribe about how both colonels had come to this point, how Une had betrayed the letter, if not the spirit, of her orders, and how Tubarov had relished this moment ever since a detachment of young OZ officers had been ordered to assassinate in his vocational home in the Ruhr Valley.

Instead, he was remarkably concise. "Too bad, Lady Une. You were far too lenient," he told her before squeezing the trigger and putting a pistol-caliber through her normal suit.

_As a soldier, yes, but as a civilian, I lived an austere life. _

**X**

The divisional headquarters at Leopoldsburg no longer served a full division, a full four of its six Leo companies still dispersed to the Baltic Republics, Southern France and even the Sanc demilitarized zone. Large barracks and larger hangars sat unused, and 7th Division pilots and support officers—even pilots from the engineering battalion and intelligence company, and a few supply and medical personnel.

Back in her characteristic red tank top, Kanna strolled the quiet hallways of the barracks building that housed most of arriving pilots until she reached an open door. Knocking twice, she pushed it open and stuck her head through: in an overly-illuminated one-bed dormitory-style room, Walker sat the desk against the opposite wall. An open box with a TAMIYA logo on the lid sat next to him, along with several plastic runners of molded pieces, a few small jars of paint and a tiny battery-powered airbrush.

"You're kidding, right?" she asked, unable to not smile.

"Kanna, I do appreciate you checking up on me like this, but it really isn't necessary," he assured her, staring at a plastic part of the inner frame for a 1/100 scale Aries mobile suit.

Looking around the small room, Kanna found that besides the open model kit, Walker had a number of engineering volumes sitting on an otherwise empty shelf and the photo spread from _L'Alba Nero _pinned to the wall.

"You're really settling in, Tai-i_._ You think we're gonna' be here that long?"

"Maybe I should start hanging my diploma and certifications," he mused with a chuckle before putting the plastic piece into a particular pile. He turned his chair to face her; in his other hand, he held part of the Japanese-printed paper assembly manual, opened to a page featuring an unmistakable diagram of the airborne mobile suit. "You saw those Aries at Chièvres, right?"

She nodded. "To be honest, I thought they were ours."

"I know the feeling. Chièvres isn't that that big an installation. Meanwhile, Leopoldsburg has space to spare. Have you met any guys from the Sixtieth George Cross Ground Division?"

She shook her head. "Not yet. I guess I should find the biggest of them and kick his ass?"

"This isn't prison, Kanna. Anyway, I think Chièvres is being used by His Excellency as his headquarters for whatever reason. And I don't think he's alone."

Kanna followed his pointing finger to the photo spread. "First Recon?"

He nodded his head. "I read the itinerary. They're going to be at Brussels too."

Sitting down on Walker's neatly-folded bed, Kanna crossed one leg over her knee. "Makes sense. D-120 is as much their victory as ours." She gestured at a thick, bound military envelope at the end of the desk, past the model parts. "What's that?"

"My technical reports to His Excellency. I'd fallen behind, I'm hoping I can get them to him and apologize in person."

"Is your resignation in there too?"

Walker gave her an unemotional cock of the head, then turned back to his desk. Kanna sighed and shook her own head. "You want me to hand in it? I thought you were avoiding Emi."

"It's not that small an air base. I'm sure I can hand a report off just fine without running into Squadron Commander Ogasawara if I'm quick on my feet."

"You're kind of missing the point, Tai-i." There was a musical, if somewhat annoying, tone from one of Walker's pockets—he took out the new mobile and swiped the lock screen with his thumb. "This is a _really _nice mobile."

"Technology _is _great."

"I hope you kept the receipt for when you file your expense purchase," he reminded her, as he navigated the vividly-colored interface against a black background. "The news aggregator sent me an alert. I need to learn how to set alerts, this is different than my Scene Pro and…"

Walker stopped, and got that familiar look, one that immediately filled Kanna with dread. That look that made his angular features even more hawk-like and edgy. "What?"

Clenching his jaw, Walker turned his mobile around and handed it to Kanna, letting her violet eyes to saucers.

"We need to find Colonel North."

Kanna was already halfway through the door, and tossed him his uniform tailcoat hanging from the wall. He barely had time to throw on his boots and scramble after her.

Marcus North, like practically all the high-ranking officers of the Seventh Division that had returned to Earth, was roomed on the barracks top floor, in a larger bedroom with an adjoining office fit for a division or battalion commanding officer, large enough to host an impromptu meeting if necessary. Instead, North sat next to Dmitry Alexandrovich Chernenko, taking up two of the eight chairs clustered around the small table, a one-third-empty bottle of Taiwanese single malt whisky and a few crystal whisky glasses sitting in front of them as they propped their feet up and undid the collars.

A sad smile on his face, North took his glass and swished the contents around for a few moments. "So, what next? To our commander-in-chief, Ambassador Une? Or maybe the late Chilias Catalonia."

Chernenko, less relaxed and with less of a smile, thought about it. Chernenko looked at him. "Have you ever heard of Garik Kasparov?" he said.

"To Mr. Garik Kasparov then."

"No, sir, I mean, have you ever heard of him?"

North emptied his glass. "No, not at all. Who is he?"

"He was a Soviet chess grandmaster in Before Colony-period. A very smart, very formidable man. When the Soviet Union collapsed, he gradually positioned himself as an opposition leader to the new anticommunist government in Russia, the leader of the liberal movement. A genuine target of the new government, towards but never at the top of their lists. Accordingly, he was afforded tremendous respect in North America and Europe, as the future of country."

"What happened to him?"

"Nothing. He spent the next sixty years as the future of his country, then died around his centennial. The world saw him as the great hope they wished for, not the man he actually was—an intellectual who hated corrupt politics and had no desire to participate in them, corrupt or otherwise." Chernenko sighed, sound a little less academic in the process. "So he told them what they wanted to hear, and eventually became what they, and he, needed them to hear. Instead of compromising with communists, who were also targeted by the government, he preferred waiting for them to die out."

"Did they?"

"Absolutely—a century after the liberals did, if you believe the Social Democrats who run the show now," Chernenko theorized. "Kasparov's strength was that of neoliberal world. The communists were even less liked than the anticommunists in Moscow, and they thrived on it, like rebellious children. So while they inevitably clawed their ways onto the fringes of power, the liberals ruled in their own world—it just happened to be separate from the real one."

Chernenko propped his arms onto his knees, holding his glass in his hands. "As matter of military necessity, we live in the real world sir. Not the one the All-Colony Congress or the Foundations tell us we live in. I'm urging you to reconsider your real world resignation just because you're content to resign in _their _world."

North leaned toward him, still smiling. "Thank you, Flight Lieutenant Chernenko, for your advice. I might not show it, but I'm touched by how much you care."

He put his hands together. "Well, sir, I tried."

"You really did. Really, flight lieutenants nowadays never fail to impress him. When I was one, we weren't half as thoughtful as your generation is. And we were at least five years older."

"Thoughtful, but not smart," Chernenko pointed out, still holding his hands together. "Three hundred years later, we know the reasons Americans failed in Russia wasn't because of anything Moscow did. On the contrary, they went all the way up to having tanks shoot at the White House on the Krasnopresnenskaya, to shoot at parliamentarians in it, what more could they have done? The East was lost because Americans didn't know the first thing about Eurasia, and didn't care to. The East was supposed to change to the West, so why should they? And the West was left with an army of armchair 'Kremlinologists' who could tell you the current leader's shoe size and eyeglass prescription but couldn't tell you when tanks were rolling down the streets of Moscow ten years earlier anymore than they could tell if they were rolling across the far side of Mars."

North smiled at him sympathetically. "I think I know more than that."

Chernenko leaned back in his chair. "I really hope you do, Colonel."

"What _did _you write your thesis on, Flight Lieutenant? History?"

"Political science. Submitted to Centre for Social and Political Studies at B.S.U. in Minsk."

"It shows," North told him as someone knocked on the door repeatedly. "It's open, whoever you are! Grab a glass and join us!"

Walker entered through the door, followed by the much-taller Kanna. Despite the obviously-informal circumstances, North was still surprised when Walker paced directly through the room and right up to his seat, setting his mobile down just ahead of the bottle of whisky. One look at the flight lieutenant's face was enough to sober North up.

"Walker, what's going on?"

"A civilian transit ship bound for E-063 just leaked this to BBC's extraterrestrial affiliate: the entire space colony has been _completely_ destroyed. All of it, the torus, the bracing arm, its agricultural pods, the local Colonial militia, everything's been turned to cinders and dust."

North stared at the mobile's screen, the text on it just large enough to be legible, then gradually at Walker. "Who would destroy an entire space colony?"

Kanna answered instead. "They don't know. But we can guess, can't we?"

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_Posted in record time! Thankfully, I had a particular day at work where I did almost nothing but write, I got a good 80% of this chapter done then (North and Chernenko's conversation was already finished a chapter ago, more on that later). I played around with a few different names for this one, including some others that would be more appropriate for the next, probably-shorter chapter, some that bordered on the humorous ("The Irresponsible Lady Une") and a few closely inspired by episode tiles ("Une versus Tubarov"), but settled on something simpler and hopefully less corny. _

_Speaking of corny, it's possible that, over the next few years, celebrity chess player and respected intellectual Gary Kasparov might do something that warrants me editing this chapter accordingly. If I remember to do so, anyway. I suspect not, so you can probably consider that little passage my personal prediction for Kasparov's career in Russian politics. _Krasnopresnenskaya _is the name of the embankment on the Moscow River where you can find the White House, a.k.a. the Russian Parliament a.k.a. the Supreme Soviet of Russia (both pre- and post-1992). In 1993, in the middle of the Russian Constitutional Crisis, President Yeltsin ordered elite armored units of the former-Soviet Army into Moscow, and had a number of T-80U tanks fire at the building with live ammunition, a response to left-wing parliamentarians barricading themselves in the building after Yeltsin surrounded it with police when they announced their intention to impeach him. A very seminal moment in Russian political history, one that, as Chernenko notes, practically no one in America (and even much of Western Europe) knows about, including those who closely follow Russian politics. In actuality, not knowing about the Constitutional Crisis (and the hundreds, possibly thousands of people killed in Moscow, the worst fighting since the Russian Revolution a century ago) and talking about Russia is kind of like talking about Nixon and not knowing about the Watergate Burglaries: you can do it, but you sound pretty stupid. Also, I am aware that Minsk is in Belarus, not Ukraine, where Chernenko is from._

_Aside from record writing time for me, this chapter actually covers nine-tenths of not one, but two episodes of the TV series (made possible by mostly ignoring Trowa and Heero's antics in Mecurius and Vayeate-watch the series for those). Considering I spent a half-dozen of the longest chapters of this story just covering events in teh gap between two episodes, that's probably a good thing. As always, tell me what you think! _


	54. Rubicon, I

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 54 – Rubicon, I**

Lady Soris Armonia was waiting outside OZ's embassy in L1-C-102, leaning against the stonework around the main gate while listening to the gurgling stone fountain behind her. A few seconds later, it was joined by the clicking of high-heel shoes against the pavement.

She half-expected Eva Cebotari, but a quick glance over her shoulder immediately proved her wrong. Wearing a beige suit and a dark blouse was Helena Arroway, sunglasses hiding her eyes and her hair done in a civilian style. She crossed over to the entrance before pausing, looking at Soris and lowering her sunglasses.

"Colonel Armonia."

"Helena Arroway," the younger woman purred back, grinning. "What brings you to our part of town?"

"I had some unfinished business with OZ's administration in Outer Space."

"I take that to mean you resigned your commission?" Soris asked, cocking her head to the right but still smiling.

"You could say that. Could you really call it 'resigning' if it's something so worthless?" she countered, stepping passed the gate, which swiftly shut behind her.

"And what will you do now that you're a free woman?"

Arroway thought about it. "Maybe write a book. OZ isn't censoring the media yet, it might be fun to publish a tell-all." She lowered her sunglasses again and gave Soris a more menacing smile. "You should be wary, Colonel Armonia. I hear there's dissension brewing in the Space Forces. As someone still in a position of authority, you have certain responsibilities," she told her before departing down the sidewalk, heals clicking against the concrete.

Soris had no response and instead held her arms up, a disarming smile on her face.

**II**

In as presentable a line as they could manage, Flight Lieutenant Walker, Flight Officers Kaneshiro and Mazuri, and finally Pilot Officer Bishop, stood at ceremony, white and maroon capes draped over their left shoulders. General Philippe Albert Marie, better known as His Majesty Philippe III, presented them, and eight other officers, with the Order of the Colonial Star, Third Class, one of the military orders created to replace the defunct Alliance Colonial Cross. The King of the Belgians was a rather plain, unassuming but friendly-looking man in his early fifties, slightly paunchy in his atomic age-style army uniform and royal sash, but military-looking enough, and a member of the board of governors of the Romefeller Foundation.

Just as they had under the Alliance to dozens of European, Asian and African monarchs, the Mobile Suit Troops saluted him as a superior-ranking officer rather than a king, allowing him to pin a medal to the left side of their chests, just past their capes, and then shook his hand. It was just routine enough that it was a challenge to mess up.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Dac said, managing not to stammer thanks to all the rehearsing he'd done in the restroom right before the ceremony.

They remained very still until the completion of the ceremony, upon which the royal procession paused for a few photographs before returning to the stands, where they'd chat among themselves before leaving the division headquarters at Leopoldsburg.

"So, what's better, the Colonial Star or the Red Banner?" Kanna asked when they were finally allowed to relax their postures.

Walker raised an eyebrow, before getting the picture. The Earth Forces had reissued him a replacement Order of the Red Banner, after he reported the first's loss when Maya Barton kidnapped him. He chuckled and held the medal hanging from his collar with his right hand. "Well, this one _is _a fake."

"I always wondered why we only get to wear our actual medals at parade functions," Dac said, a little too loudly. "Now I see why."

"What a vote of confidence," Walker muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Don't take it so hard sir," Mazuri interjected. "Had Dac been in your place, he'd be dead."

"Oh yeah, totally."

"And I'm the one considering a career change," Walker mumbled under his breath.

"Excuse me, sir?" Dac asked. By the time he looked back, Walker was already halfway across the courtyard with a leather attaché case under his hand. He was trying to make his way towards the large, well-dressed men who formed a neat perimeter over the end of the stands, adjacent to His Majesty's party. They were a small portion of the OZ Earth Army's Fusiliers-Grenadiers Regiment—one of the two elite bodyguard units to Treize Khushrenada. The other unit, the Fusiliers-Chasseurs Regiment, had remained in Luxembourg.

Rather predictably in his mind, there was a familiar face towards the bottom of the stands. Master Aircrew Serrati spotted Walker well before Walker saw him, and was waiting for him when another officer approached from the stands.

Squadron Commander Ogasawara, in full in-formation uniform with a presentation katana hanging from her belt, grabbed the large bodyguard by the arm, pulling at it to get his attention. "I need to speak with the colonel."

Serrati gave her a rather distasteful look before relenting. "Go ahead, ma'am." He turned to Walker. "Do you need something, Flight Lieutenant?"

Walker gave him a less distasteful but still unfriendly look. "I'll speak to His Excellency when he's less busy," he mumbled before turning back to the courtyard. His three pilots were waiting for him, holding plastic cups of ice water, when he returned.

"Did you know First Recon was here?" Dac asked.

"No, just her I'd say," Mazuri pointed out. Ogasawara was standing next to Treize in the stands, surrounded by imposing-looking bodyguards that managed to make her look small and coquettish, visibly but inaudibly engaged in conversation. "I wonder what's so damn important?"

"I _really _don't want to know."

Mazuri nodded in agreement as the two men drank their water. Finishing his, Dac spoke again.

"Ever met the Queen of Belgium?"

"I think she's technically Queen of the Belgians, and no, I haven't. Let's go," he declared, a brief glimmer of childlike wonder in his eyes.

The two men strolled off, leaving Kanna shaking her head with a hand on her hip. "You hear from Colonel North?" she asked quietly.

"No, I haven't seen him since last night."

"Maybe he just had a bad hangover," she guessed wishfully.

"Well, he did say he would meet with his contacts in the United Nations Colonial Affairs Ministry," Walker muttered.

"What I don't like was why he was so adamant we not come with him."

"It's not that big a deal. His resignation already went through, he wasn't going to be at this event anyway," he muttered, trying not to look upset.

Kanna gave another sigh. "What's with the briefcase?"

"Oh, this?" He looked at the leather attaché case he was holding. "Leftover work from Outer. You know, sometimes think we're too hard on Dac and Ajay," he pointed out.

Kanna cocked her head. "Maybe. It's not like they're supposed to be warriors or somethin'."

Walker nodded, holding his briefcase behind his back. He wasn't certain if that was sarcasm. "You can't really blame them. Even here on the homeworld, we tend to become insulated from the civilian world."

Kanna begrudgingly nodded. "It's still a really lame concert tour for those guys," she mumbled.

"Have you ever met the Queen of Belgium?" Walker asked, grinning abruptly.

Kanna laughed sharply. "I've met the sitting monarchs of both Japan and Korea, how's that? 'Course, that's just because I was a pilot Eighteenth Airborne and Colonel Chuang was decorated multiple times." She cocked her head. "I met the Empress Regent when I was a kid."

"Empress Regent?"

"Yeah, I guess you wouldn't have heard of her—she'd already left before you were posted to the J.A.P., right?" Kanna put a finger to her head, as if conjuring up long-disused academic knowledge. "Empress Yukiko, who rule for about fourteen years after the Heijō Emperor died of a stroke, until her only son came of age. She visited Okinawa three times during her reign, I think, and I was in Montessori when she visited my school on her last trip as regent."

She laughed and rubbed the back of her head. "I guess 'met' isn't the right word, huh? I was a four-year old."

Walker smiled. "Must have been quite a treat to meet a sitting empress."

"I know, right?" she answered, giving him a hard smack on the back that almost spilled his water. "Man, I had a great childhood. We sang the anthem of the Okinawan Republic, performed a traditional play in costume, she even took questions," she beamed.

"What was she like?"

Kanna thought about it. "She was…is a very charming woman, more than her son. Apparently she was super-genki in her teens, a real joker. Used to drive her schoolmates insane. You could still see some of that, decades later." She held either elbow over her head and sighed. "Way more interesting than her children ever are. But I guess that wasn't very statesmanlike."

She grinned again. "Whatever. I don't care what the Diet thought, I thought she was a great queen. She was funny and she had a good sense of humor. Why else should a monarch have in this day and age?"

Walker laughed, causing Kanna to raise an eyebrow. "What?"

"Nothing," he assured her.

"Oh, I get it. Very funny. Before you ask, Ryūkyū's last king ruled back in the Ninteenth Century, and the Americans abolished Japanese peerages after the Pacific War. And after the republic was declared, I'm pretty sure that killed any chance for a resurrected monarchy. Besides, can you imagine me as queen?" she asked, rolling her eyes.

"It's a challenge, I suppose."

She smiled and looked down at Walker sipping his water. "What about you, _Tai-i_?"

"Meet a monarch? No one, never. In the Dominion of Canada, our monarchs are the British King and Queen. You may find this surprising, but Ontario's a lot farther from England than Okinawa is from Honshu."

Kanna nodded, making sense of it. "Still, you're only nineteen. Do well enough in this war, get promoted to lieutenant colonel, baron of the Foundation—you could marry one of those British princesses," she said, grinning slyly and elbowing him in the back. "Prince Oswald, Duke of Ontario," she giggled.

Walker smirked. "I'd hope, at least, they could give me a better name than 'Oswald'. Something like 'James' or 'Charles'."

"Has a Canadian ever married into the royal family?"

"I have no idea," he confessed before they both laughed.

**III**

It was well into the evening before Walker could obtain a 4WD military car and make the hundred-minute drive over highway A2, bypassing Brussels, back to Chièvres AFB. There, he found the base was substantially more populated than it had been previously, now home to a brigade of Internal Army troops out of Ghent. Treize Khushrenada's headquarters were a large office building by a pair of mobile suit-sized hangars, indicated by the presence of His Excellency's aircraft nearby. He parked as close as he could get—right by a very obvious security checkpoint with a pair of white-helmeted military policemen.

"'Evening," he announced, as casually as he could manage, squinting in the darkness. He couldn't tell in the inadequate lighting, but both men wore uniforms that looked more bluish in hue than green.

The sergeant on duty saluted, his comrade holding a torch. "_Goedenavond_, Flight Lieutenant. May I help you?"

"I'm here on business to see His Excellency," he said, before showing his military passport, the most obvious form of identification he had on him. "Walker, Space Mobile Suit Troops."

The sergeant dutifully took the passport, pulled a nearby handset from the guard office and spoke into it. "_Gate heir. Een '_Flight Lieutenant Walker', _hier om Zijne Excellentie te zien._" A short pause. "_Ja meneer_."

He hung up and returned the booklet to Walker. "I'm sorry, sir, but I cannot let you enter. Should I have them call His Excellency?"

"Why not?" he asked, ignoring the counteroffer.

"I don't know sir," he replied, a little too quickly.

Walker stared at the older, larger noncommissioned officer, at the closed gate, then back at the men at the checkpoint before climbing back into his car. He was about to drive for the highway again when, out of frustration, he slammed on the breaks barely twenty meters down road of the gate and just sat there on the curb, resisting the urge to bash his head against the steering wheel.

After watching Walker obstruct traffic for a few minutes, the two men, instead of demanding Walker move like he expected, instead moved to let someone out through the gate. An armored limousine mounting small flags he didn't recognize passed through, turned, and then passed him directly without stopping.

"Flight Lieutenant Walker, sir!" the same sergeant called out. Walker came on foot this time.

"Well?"

He sighed. "I've been ordered to do two things, sir," he said, in very deliberate English with a Dutch accent. "First, do you want me to have that attaché case delivered to His Excellency, Colonel Khushrenada?"

Walker stared at him, then at the leather briefcase. "How do you know that…"

"Sir! Excuse me, sir, I may not be a flying officer, but I'm not stupid, sir," he interjected loudly.

He sighed and handed him the briefcase. "Yes, thank you," he said. "And I'm sorry Sergeant," he added.

The sergeant gave no indication he'd heard the apology. "Second, sir, something has been delivered _to you_."

"Excuse me?"

As the two had spoken, Walker hadn't seen that the other soldier on duty had crossed through the gate and come back pushing something large. He squinted for a few seconds in the dark before realizing what it is.

"My Armstrong! How did…where did this…?"

"So this is your _motorfiets_ sir?" the sergeant asked as the soldier brought it to Walker and deployed the kickstand.

"Yes, but the last place I saw this…never mind. Who ordered you to give me this?"

The sergeant looked genuinely uncertain. "My commander, sir, but I imagine the order came from someone higher up," he explained, his meaning plainly obvious.

Walker stared at the four-stroke motorcycle—it looked _exactly _as he remembered it, in its dull green paintjob with a few harmless nicks and scrapes over the chassis, the leather seat stretched and a little dirty. Despite the ridiculousness of it all, he immediately pulled his goggles down from his cap, climbing onto it.

_Cold as a stone, _he thought, touching the engine block. Both guards watched with some interest as he turned open the fuel line all the way, gave the starter four charging kicks, opened the throttle to full and then kick started it in earnest. The engine gave a high-pitched but efficient-sounding garble and whine before coming to power, and he revved it twice before looking up at them. The second guard patted his comrade on the side before gesturing, "_Hoe te starten_."

"We've never seen a Before Colony motorcycle design, sir," the sergeant explained.

In spite of the prior disappointment, Walker was grinning at them as he gave the engine one last rev. "Light, magnesium engines," he explained. "They can be hard to start, the electric ones are easier."

He throttled up and turned around before adding, "Make sure the colonel gets that that case!"

"Ja meneer!"

"Sir, what should we do with your car?" the guard asked.

"Well it's not _my_ car…I don't know, return it to the divisional headquarters at Leopoldsburg?" Walker shouted before he accelerated away down the road, leaving the sergeant shaking his head.

It was another two hours riding on dark, near-empty streets and highways through the Belgian countryside back to Leopoldsburg, but he was still grinning to himself when he arrived.

**IV**

After a rather short ceremony where Duke Dermail Catalonia personally presented medals certain distinguished pilots of the First Recon Battalion, compared to the general awarding of decorations to all participants from the 7th Strategic Aerospace Division, practically all pilots were invited to a Foundation-hosted reception that would a closed-door address to be given by His Grace.

The last reward he presented went to the de facto commander of battalion, a tall, dusky woman with perfect posture and an impenetrable, almost severe expression on her face. He placed her as being Southeast Asian—only because he hadn't expected such a woman to be in charge of the unit, but another Caucasian like Soris Armonia. He did leave the Duke with a much better impression than Lady Soris typically did.

He shook the gloved hand of the statuesquely humorless officer after presenting her with a medal, the Order of the Crown, one the highest decorations that could be presented by the Foundation itself rather than an independent nation. Afterwards, he was glad for the opportunity—despite her entirely unenthusiastic expression, there was something calming about her presence. Not her beauty, of which she had in spades in his opinion, but her clear stoicism.

When Flight Officer Tal found him, the difference was apparent. "Your Grace," he said, rushing over to the isolated corner where he was waiting.

"Ah, Talik. You found it?"

"Of course, Your Grace, though I'm a little confused about…" he began, presenting him with the plan leather attaché case under his arm. "Never mind, Your Grace. Is there anything else, sir?"

"Just one last thing. There'll be orders coming in from Luxembourg for the troops leaving the city, I'd like you to read them personally here."

Tal looked completely confused. "I…see, Your Grace. Of course." His face seemed to brighten. "If you mind me saying so, Your Grace, you seem much more at peace than you were yesterday."

"I should," he mumbled in agreement before dismissing Tal, who immediately. The Duke took one last look around the—either for one last look for the severe pilot or at the Space Forces officers as a whole—before quietly leaving himself.

"Oh, I love this. Too early to drink anything hard or strike up conversations with rich heiresses," Mazuri muttered to Bishop, who almost spat out his chardonnay. Both men stood at the opposite corner of the ballroom, near the refreshment tables, about four meters from a bored-looking camera crew recording the event.

"Don't do that, do you have any idea of much this costs?" he asked before finishing the remainder in his glass. "You're as bad as Walker."

"Where is he, anyway? I thought he'd be cowering in the corner."

"Didn't they teach you in school to pay attention?" he demanded. Ajay gave him a rather skeptical look. "That chesty pilot from First Recon, Emi, already left in a hurry. He's only afraid of her."

"Why _was_ that again?" he asked, swishing his own glass.

"What did I _just say_?" Dac barked at him.

"Either of you losers seen Lieutenant Colonel North?" Kaneshiro Kanna asked quickly, circling around the nearby long table, her own hands empty.

The two quieted and exchanged looks. "No, not at all."

"You should look for Chernenko, they always seemed close," Mazuri pointed out. "Speaking of which, what did Clarkson talk to you about?" he asked, cocking his head.

"What do you mean?"

"Back on the shuttle-ride down to Earth. You had a long conversation with F/L Clarkson, I remember it."

"Why do you care?"

"I'm curious," he insisted.

Kanna forced a rigid grin. "About how bigotry works. Like against the Colonials. Especially when they look just like we do."

"Christ, that's some heavy stuff," Mazuri asked, returning to his glass. "Forget I asked."

"No problem, Ajay," she told him, smacking him on the back hard enough to spill some of his drink. He departed, exchanging places with Walker, whose hands were empty.

"He's not here."

"Yeah, neither is Chernenko," Kanna said, the anxiety apparent in her voice.

"Well, it's...probably nothing. It's the military, people come and go all the time," he whispered.

"Sure. Especially when a whole colony gets wiped out," Kanna muttered aloud before reaching behind her back and grabbing whatever food was within arm's reach.

Walker shushed her quickly. "It's easy to speak your mind when you're a two meters of solid muscle. I couldn't talk my way past two checkpoint guards last night."

"It didn't go great?"

"It could have gone better," he admitted. "But it wasn't a total disaster."

Kanna was about to give a rejoinder when Walker preempted her. "And yes, I do consider that an improvement, all things considered.

"Well, things about to get worse," Kanna told him.

"I'm sorry?" he asked, turning in the direction Kanna gestured with her head. Towards the front of the ballroom, by a half-dozen officers in royal blue rather than hunter green uniforms, two elderly Foundation officials were trying to keep pace with an overexcited young woman in an expensive black gown and long platinum blond hair. Her face lit up when she spotted Kanna, who gave an awkward, uncomfortable smile in response.

"Flight Officer Kaneshiro, there you are! I was told you'd be here, how wonderful it is to see you again," she cooed loudly, trotting up to them in her high heels.

"Who the heck is this?" Walker whispered.

"Dorothy Catalonia," she muttered back.

"As in Duke _Dermail Catalonia_?" he asked. Kanna nodded and forced a smile on her face.

"Ms. Kaneshiro, it really is quite wonderful to see you again," Dorothy excitedly chirped after batting her eyelashes for a few seconds, before reaching out and taking Kanna's large, empty right hand and shaking it repeatedly. Walker stared at the two, trying and failing not to do so.

"Ms. Catalonia, this is my commanding officer, Flight Lieutenant Walker," Kanna said finally, taking her hand back and gesturing at him. "Sir, Dorothy Catalonia."

"It's a pleasure, Ms. Catalonia," Walker said, forcing a smile and offering his hand. She took it and squeezed it through the white cotton gloves, violet eyes twinkling from excitement.

"It's an honor to meet you, Flight Lieutenant Walker. Your valor during Operation 'Citadel' was quite marvelous!" she told him, sounding very prim though enthusiastic.

Walker stared at Dorothy, visibly confused. "Thank you, Ms. Catalonia."

"Please call me 'Dorothy'," she insisted.

"Of course…Dorothy."

Towards the front of the ballroom, the band began to play a slow waltz which momentarily caught her attention, and Walker took what he thought was a discreet step away from Dorothy and Kanna, which only caused her to take a larger step towards him, her black-gloved hands rubbing together. "In particular, I found the story of your escape from Alliance Headquarters to rejoin the battle absolutely _enthralling_."

Walker forced a smile. "Enthralling, you say?"

Kanna gave one of her nervous, forced laughs.

"Oh yes, Flight Lieutenant. You must know there've been so few prisoners taken in this war that to be one does make you quite exceptional," she beamed, eyes twinkling again.

"It's not really…that much of a story," he began.

Abruptly, Dorothy's tone changed and the twinkling seemed stop. "Oh my, I'm so sorry, I didn't want to dredge up any painful or traumatic memories…" she began apologetically.

Walker pulled at his collar with a finger and turned his head. "No, it's quite all right. On the contrary, I was actually treated fairly well, considering the circumstances. It's just not that interesting of a story."

"Oh, I'm sure that isn't the case, Flight Lieutenant…"

"Dorothy, would you care to dance?" Kanna asked abruptly, taking her by one of her small, delicate-looking gloved hands and bowing.

Dorothy looked surprised only momentarily as Kanna led her towards the center of the ballroom. Walker remained where he stood, rubbing the side of his head tiredly, and was still doing so when Mazuri approached him, arms behind his back.

"So that's Dorothy Catalonia."

Walker nodded. "Granddaughter of the Duke of Liechtenstein, daughter of the founder of the Special Mobile Suit Troops," he added.

"That might be the most difficult surname to live up to in all of Earth-Sphere. I don't envy her," he said, a hand on his hip. "Poor girl must be, what, fourteen? Fifteen? And the Foundation already has her gallivanting from warzone to warzone as one of their envoys?"

Walker nodded in agreement.

"Then again, she would be Treize Khushrenada's cousin, wouldn't she?" he speculated.

Walker looked at Mazuri, apparently surprised.

"Chilias Catalonia was Treize Khushrenada's uncle, right? Ergo, Dorothy would be his cousin." Mazuri gave him an incredulous look. "You must have known that."

Walker didn't respond as he took another drink from his glass. "Speaking of Dermail Catalonia, they better plan to address those Gundam attacks in Outer Space."

"So you think a Gundam's the cause of that missing colony?" Walker asked.

"Don't you?" Mazuri asked, watching Walker's face steadily grow grimmer. "Wherever the Gundams go, they leave death and destruction in their wake. It's not such an outlandish theory to surmise that they might visit destruction on the very colonies they created them in the first place."

"So the chickens have come home to roost."

"They would have to, eventually, wouldn't they?" Walker looked at him and he cleared his throat. "Don't misunderstand, I wasn't _hoping _it would happen. Just confident that it would."

The two watched as Dorothy and Kanna continued their slow, even mechanical waltz in time to the music, Kanna doing her best to lead despite finding Dorothy was the much more skilled dancer.

"So Oswald Walker is your commanding officer?"

"Something interest you?" she managed to ask, narrowly avoiding missing a step.

"Oh, I've just heard some _very _interesting things about him, even before his posting in Outer Space. Like the debate he had in Bremen with Ms. Relena Darlian."

Kanna didn't bother hiding the surprise in her face. "Who?"

"The daughter of the Alliance Deputy Foreign Minister Darlian, who was killed at New Edwards Air Base," she told her matter-of-factly. Kanna still looked confused, a fact she clearly enjoyed as the two spun in time with the music.

As the waltz finally came to its conclusion, Walker was attempting to discreetly check the news aggregator on his mobile—Dorothy was able to catch him off guard with her uncomfortably friendly smile.

"I don't think Ms. Kaneshiro is particularly enjoying herself, Flight Lieutenant. May I ask you to take her place?" she asked in a prim, saccharine voice.

Mazuri quickly looked at Walker and then Dorothy. "As a matter of fact, Dorothy, if you…"

"I'd be happy to take over for her," Walker announced with the same primness, though sounding rather rigid by comparison and causing Mazuri to stare at him in wide-eyed shock for a few more seconds. He gave an obliging bow and took Dorothy's extended left hand.

"Thank you _so much_, Flight Lieutenant."

"What was that about?" Mazuri asked Kanna as she passed Walker and Dorothy. She gave him a defeated look and shrugged.

Another Viennese waltz began, with Walker managing to awkwardly keep up with Dorothy's graceful, efficient movements while not bumping into their neighbors. Like Kanna, he could not perform any advanced or impressive maneuvers, but Dorothy seemed to make up for it. She had no trouble talking as she did.

"As I've already mentioned, I've heard many interesting things about you, Flight Lieutenant."

"Is that so?" Walker asked, taking care to avoid walking over Dorothy's feet with his boots.

"Very much so," she said as they spun around. "And I believe you must have some questions for me, don't you?"

Walker almost tripped, but managed to recover quite gracefully from it, partially disguising his error. "What makes you think that, Dorothy?"

"Oh, Flight Lieutenant Walker, I think you're too smart not to be curious," she giggled mischievously.

_What I'm curious about are those eyebrows_. Walker bit down on his lip as they spun around again in the opposite direction.

"If you work up the nerve I'll be happy to answer them, Flight Lieutenant," she sang softly.

"I'll keep that in mind, miss."

The waltz's tempo began to slow down gradually and it became easier for him to keep up with Dorothy. "You're quite the accomplished dancer, Ms. Catalonia," he said, trying to compliment her.

She visibly held back a laugh. "It's one of the things they teach you in finishing school."

"I see." He really didn't, having only a vague notion of what finishing school was.

Dorothy seemed to sense that. "I don't blame you for not being impressed. It's quite useless compared to what they teach at the academy."

Her sincerity wasn't immediately apparent. "I suppose that might be the case."

This time Dorothy giggled. "It's fine, Flight Lieutenant, you don't need to humor me. I'm actually quite envious of you and your comrades. When you were my age, you were only on your career path in the Alliance military."

Walker neglected to hide his frown. "Is that so?"

"Of course, I don't think I'm suited to be a soldier," she confessed with another giggle. "Though I suppose that just makes me all the more envious of you. Surely in the years you've spent as a soldier, you've experienced things far more meaningful than drinking champagne to a Viennese waltz?"

He was about to methodically correct her on the distinction between an enlisted soldier and a commissioned officer when he felt Dorothy's offhanded remark almost forcefully jogging his memory. For a few seconds, he was standing in the cafeteria in the headquarters of the Republican Guard's First Central Division in L1-D-120. Someone had dragged him up to the dancefloor and begun throwing him about. He bounced against someone behind him, almost falling down, and he felt himself being held close and laughing hysterically. The mental image became clearer: it was Tsujimoto Nabiki who'd dragged him out onto the dancefloor, and spun him around so hard she'd lost hold of him. It was her he'd pulled himself back onto his feet with. And half of that laughter was coming from him. Pop music was blaring over the loudspeakers.

_I must have forgotten it in my inebriated state_, he thought, a little amused.

"Reminiscing about past valor, Flight Lieutenant?" Dorothy asked.

His expression had given him away; he was back in the ballroom in Brussels, listening to live 'entertainment' in tuxedos and dresses play waltz after waltz. "Just that I'm probably not the warrior you think I am, Ms. Catalonia."

To his surprise, Dorothy looked at him and pouted—just as affluent teenage girl might be expected to—and opened her mouth to object when the music tersely stopped. In front of the band, a junior officer Walker would have sworn seeing before took the microphone and tapped it twice.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please excuse the interruption. I have orders from all personnel from the Seventh Division, issued by the General Staff in Diekirch," he said, actually holding an unsealed military envelope in front of him. "All pilots, noncommissioned officers and aerospace personnel are to return to Leopoldsburg and remain on standby, pending further orders."

The officer remained on stage, and the music didn't resume. A tense, uncomfortable silence followed. There was a palpable feeling of annoyance in the room while it lasted.

"Goddamn it, Talik, is this gonna' be a surprise drill?" another flight lieutenant asked behind Walker.

"Sir, I don't know," he said apologetically.

While Dorothy kept pouting, Walker excused himself quickly and found his three wingmen by the refreshments, emptying and refilling their glasses in quick succession. "Well, you heard the man."

"I bet it _is _another drill," Dac muttered between gulps.

Mazuri paused between gulps to look at his wristwatch. "Wasn't there supposed to be a Foundation summit in thirty?"

"If orders mean missing _that_, fine by me," Kanna announced indignantly. "Come on boys."

"What kind of drill are we supposed to do without mobile suits, anyway?" Dac asked, following Kanna towards the exit.

"Not like you remember how to operate one," Mazuri fired back rapidly, causing Dac to give him a not-so-friendly punch in the side. "Maybe we'll practice changing into those new blue uniforms," he added with a laugh, holding himself.

One hand under his cape, Walker watched them depart before looking back at the ballroom stage. Just in front of it, Dorothy Catalonia was standing in her black dress, still clearly annoyed at what had just happened. He gave a shrug before turning and running after them.

**V**

"_Captain Fielding, can you please step forward._"

Wearing an unadorned Alliance Army officer's uniform, Alexander Fielding rose from the chair he'd been patiently waiting on and approached the thick glass wall of the holding cell. The spare uniform was slightly too big from him, and devoid of the correct insignia, but right now that was the least of his concerns.

"_Please hold still._"

Fielding was able to hold a violent sneeze until after the camera behind the glass wall had flashed at him brightly. Almost immediately after arriving in continental Europe, he'd found he had seasonal allergies that weren't entirely prevented by remaining indoors.

"Thank you, Captain," the bored voice of a Terrestrial officer from the Military Commissariat announced after he sneezed. He sat back down, stretched his legs, tried to relax. It'd been years since he'd been on Earth.

In a different room, but within earshot, Carmen Soletta endured the same process, dressed in much the same ill-fitting army field uniform, but assisted by two young officer cadets from the Commissariat pulling security duty. After she proved nonresponsive to the voice's request, they stood her up by the glass wall, waited for the bright flash, and then sat her back down.

"_Is this your first time on Earth, Captain?_"

When Soletta didn't respond, the security officer to her right gave a leg of the metal chair a sharp kick, not enough to knock it, and her, over but enough to encourage a response. "Yes," she muttered. It was difficult to gauge the factuality of the answer, just her extreme disinterest.

"_Do you have any family relations in Europe, Captain_?"

In his room, Fielding shook his head. "No, they're all in North America, except for an aunt living in New Zealand." As he answered, it occurred to him they were gauging if he'd be allowed to contact his family before being visited by the International Red Cross.

"_Is there anyone we can put you in contact with?_"

Soletta delayed her response until it appeared her chair was going to be kicked again. "No one," she answered truthfully—her friends and family all lived in Outer Space, spread across the First Lagrange Point.

"_Any immediate health considerations_?"

"I could use some over-the-counter…sneezing medicine," Fielding gradually explained.

"_Do you mean antihistamines?_"

"Yes, those. I haven't had allergies since I left Earth," he explained before laughing softly. The voice behind the glass didn't laugh, so he stopped.

"_Do you recall where you are, Captain?_"

She blinked twice. "Evere, Belgium."

"_Very good. At least you're cognizant_," the voice replied before terminating with a click. The door immediately opened and another officer in-uniform stepped through and gestured at the men at her sides.

"Bring her to visitor room three," she ordered while the two security officers nodded.

"Yes ma'am."

They half-guided, half-dragged her to her feet and through the door. At the other end of the well-lit corridor, another door opened and a familiar face stepped through, escorted by only one noncommissioned officer.

"Soletta? Soletta," Fielding immediately shouted before getting a glare from the young man escorting him. He ignored the cadet. "Soletta, it's me, Fielding!" he repeated before his escort took him by the arm.

To his disappointment, Soletta didn't acknowledge him as he was dragged away. The three Military Commissariat officers waited until they were in a separate corridor before the leader spoke. "You have a visitor. So try and stay cognizant, and be on your best behavior while you're at it. Unless you want to spend the next two years as our guest," she said before smiling.

As usual, she didn't respond, so the officer continued. "Who is it, you ask? I think you can guess."

They led her to a visitor's room, unfurnished except for a table with a chair at both ends and doors on opposing walls. A pair of NCOs stood guard over the opposite door, and one opened it just as Soletta sat down at the table.

"Squadron Commander, ma'am," the junior officer chirped, clicking her heels together.

Still in her complete service uniform, in-formation, and wearing the medal to her by the Duke of Liechtenstein, Ogasawara Emi took the remaining chair at the table and sat, pulling her white leather cape out of the way.

"You again," Soletta mumbled after another minute of silence.

"I think that's an improvement, Squadron Commander, ma'am," the Commissariat officer added, patting Soletta on the shoulder unnecessarily.

"Thank you, Lieutenant. Would you…?" she began.

"Yes ma'am!" she shouted a little too enthusiastically, before gesturing at the four men to follow her out of the room, leaving Ogasawara and Soletta to sit alone. As soon as the door was closed, Ogasawara pulled back one of her bleached white gloves and glanced at her wristwatch.

"The summit should have already begun. That only gives me a few minutes to talk to you."

"Then why bother?" Soletta countered in quiet hostility.

"She was right, you _are _more cognizant," she jeered. Her smile promptly vanished. "Do you know where you are?"

Soletta groaned. "Evere. What is it with you Terrestrials and stupid geography questions?"

"A municipality of Brussels City, the 'capital' of the Romefeller Foundation. Any of this make any sense?" she asked quickly.

Soletta took her time answering. "Romefeller, it's one of those NGOs isn't it? They promoted the founding of the Alliance, didn't they?"

"Among other things, yes. I'm sure you've heard the rumors about the Alliance military, OZ, and the Foundation."

Soletta sat there until Ogasawara leaned further across the table, making it obvious she wanted an answer. She relented again. "I know that Field Marshal Noventa was an honorary board member of the Romefeller Foundation, and I know that the Foundation was big in bankrolling militarization of mobile suits," she muttered.

"And OZ?"

She actually had to think about that one. There were rumors, so blatantly clichéd that saying them out loud seemed to render them the products of conspiracy theorists and military science novelists. "I heard that back when OZ was the Specials, it was made up of the Foundation's Youth movement."

"The Cadets, yes. It's one of those secrets kept in plain sight. Those are the only kinds of secrets that people like me know," she warned.

Soletta said nothing again.

"Yeah, I'm sure your friend Fielding would get a good laugh if he knew," she smirked. "You know I'm new to this sort of thing. I had a whole plane laid out, a half-dozen interviews to build a rapport between the two of us, and put you to good use. Better use than fighting for the tin-pot government of some doomed Colonial republic."

Emi barely had time to evade the thin stamped-metal table when Soletta drove both her feet into it form below and flipped it into the air. It spun once before clattering onto the linoleum floor with a loud _clang _the echoed through the small room. On her feet now, Emi grinned at her roguishly at her. "See what I mean?"

Breathing loudly, Soletta said nothing, and she continued. "You're a good pilot, 'Bella'. Even a great one, considering your bad luck. I know my share of pilots who're the same—you might be the best of them, if you're in a mobile suit, instead of some stupid Alliance _wunderwaffe_. You held your own against me in a Leo, after all."

Still no response. Emi dragged her chair closer to Soletta, so that barely a half-meter separated the two. "At least for a while. But thanks to this stupid spat between the royals, we're running out of time. Right now, everything could be coming apart just down the street in central Brussels. I've been in OZ since I was I was sixteen, in the M.S. Troops Recon Battalion for almost all of that. I've gathered a lot of cards since then, which I've been saving. Now I get to use them."

The prisoner gave Emi a skeptical, even patronizing look, which didn't upset her. Instead, she leaned even closer, bringing her face right up to Soletta's, muscles visibly tensed her uniform. "So you can keep being useless, or you can actually _listen _for me a change, Bella_._"

**VI**

As Ogasawara surmised, the Foundation's summit was already underway behind closed doors, except for a five-minute-long briefing given by a Foundation spokesperson for ESPAN-2 and other affiliates just outside for the media and public.

She made no effort to disguise checking her jeweled wristwatch before looking back up at the press corp. "We're almost at that time. I'll take a few questions, you, from the back."

"Thank you, ma'am. Is Count Khushrenada's briefing to the Foundation's governing board intended to signal the end of the campaign against the former Alliance in Outer Space?"

"I can't say anything concrete other than there _will _be discussion on that particular subject, but any formal declaration about that military campaign will have to be done before the United Nations."

"But there _are _U.N.O. representatives present at this meeting," the journalist pressed.

"Yes, of course."

Multiple hands came up and someone spoke prematurely. "But if the war in Outer Space is over, does the Foundation have anything to say about the rumored appearance of a new Gundam, or reports of fighting on Luna in the vicinity of Marius Crater?" she asked quickly.

"Those are purely military matters, which should be directed _at _the military leadership, not the Foundation," the spokesperson replied quickly.

"But fighting hasn't actually stopped, has it?" the journalist repeated.

"I won't repeat myself. You, over there?"

"Can you comment on the absence of information coming from Ambassador Une's office in the First Lagrange Point?" another journalist asked, lowering his arm.

"No, I can't."

"But with the possible destruction of Colony E-063, don't you…"

"If you're asking questions about Outer Space, I suggest you direct those to my colleague, Colonel Andrews in Luxembourg," she shot back. "I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but I have to end this briefing now.'

"Wait, ma'am, can you comment on…?"

"I most certainly cannot," she said as she left.

"Ma'am, is

"What about Luna?"

"Has Treize Khushrenada been called to answer for the rumored destruction of E-063?"

The questions continued even after a pair of enlisted men on guard-of-honor duty escorted the spokesperson from the podium and down the hall. Behind the tall doors to the main chambers, Duke Dermail had already begun his address to the Romefeller Foundation's board of governors, standing in his trademark militaristic dress in the style of the Napoleonic Wars. The wall of the stage behind him was almost completely obscured by a massive Foundation banner that covered much of the stage behind him: two white unicorns flanking either side of a shield, part Celtic cross, part red band, and the crown of a Tyrian purple bell visible behind it, pointing up to the raise, cathedral-like ceiling.

"It cannot be forgotten, progress waits for no-one—not the Alliance and not the Winner Corporation. And not for ourselves. With the financial power of the Romefeller Foundation behind it, a revolution in the technological and industrial capabilities of the colonies will now be possible. A case in point, the system for mass production of 'mobile dolls' is almost fully established. Per our responsibilities as the natural leadership, we will position these automated troops in the ongoing conflict zones of each country. Thus, ladies and gentlemen, we will demonstrate to the world our power and our resolve to bring peace and order to Earth."

Despite the rhetoric, his face was missing its usual triumphant enthusiasm. "Is it not time for us to once more usher in an era of tradition and civility, so that the world might be properly governed?"

On either side of the chamber, the members of the board gave enthusiastic applause, loud enough to obscure the opening of the doors at the end of the chamber. Through them, a military officer in full in-formation uniform strode towards His Grace's podium, snapping his heels together when he stopped.

The speaker stared at the late arrival, hiding a small amount of momentary surprise. "Welcome, my dear Treize. We continue to rely on your leadership of OZ," the Duke told him, without his usual frivolity.

There was moment of palpable silence, made more tolerable by the fact that the only two men in the room aware of what was about to transpire were at least face-to-face. Opening his eyes, Treize Khushrenada answered.

"Your Grace, I'm sorry but I cannot support the Romefeller Foundation in the path its taking."

The silence immediately turned tense, with many board members audibly gasping in shock. After a few long seconds, Dermail simply replied, "What?"

"Tradition is a history given to us by our ancestors. It's the history of compassion, the product of people's genuine sincerity. I do think that there sometimes is a beauty in the struggle of war. But at the same time I'd like to express my regret over those lost souls and appeal to you to recognize how precious life is. I believe what mankind needs is not absolute victory, but rather a certain demeanor in struggle itself, an attitude towards fighting. I fear the era of these soulless weapons we call 'mobile dolls', the era the Foundation has created, may be shameful to the people of the future.

"I used to think that the ideals of the Colonial pacifist movement were rather pitiable complaints born out of an ignorance of tradition and reality. But from those conditions, new warriors who surpass my own ideals were born."

"He means the Gundam pilots," Shalua Yuy whispered from the back row where she sat in attendance. Her aide-de-camp, the massive man sitting next to her, nodded in agreement.

"But tradition becomes muddled alongside their pure sentiments. From a historical perspective, soldiers who lost what they fought to protect or were further betrayed by those they served were defeated, considered 'losers'. But they do not recognize themselves as such. Not only that, but they would retain a strong will to continue fighting. The emotions of those I find most beautiful are always sorrowful, honored traditions disappear in the cry of the weak. The victors in war will eventually decline themselves and are vanquished—it is those 'losers' who cultivate a new leader."

"Treize, what are you getting at?" Dermail asked, his voice tense.

He closed his eyes. "I will be joining the ranks of the 'losers'."

"So you're asking that the Foundation governing board remove you as commander-in-chief of OZ?" Dermail bellowed sharply.

When Treize opened his eyes again, he saw Duke Dermail pointing something glimmering in the dim light directly at him—a ceremonial muzzeloader pistol, given to the recipient of a military decoration in the same manner as the presentation swords worn by OZ officers or the daggers given to the most accomplished graduates of Eurasian and European military academies. He hadn't expected to see such a thing, much less pointed at him, at the hands of his granduncle.

"Yes."

Dermail sighed deeply, immediately setting the pistol down onto the podium in front of him. "No one here wishes to see further bloodshed. Besides, we must take your distinguished service into account. On the authority of the Supreme Military Commission, I hereby confine you the Foundation headquarters in Luxembourg. The terms of your resignation will be brought before the commission for consideration."

Treize bowed his head quickly before turning, cape swirling after him, to leave the chamber, Dermail watching him depart. He either didn't notice, or didn't care, when Shalua Yuy stood in her shimmering light-blue gown and left herself, followed by her suit-wearing companion.

Treize was smiling. _With an ornate, forgotten weapon like that, I'd feel no emotion even if I could shoot an enemy through the heart. It's not that a pure soul has no direction, it's that their mind is free. _

**VII**

Kanna found Walker standing in front of his room in the barracks at Leopoldsburg, goggles still pulled down over his eyes, tearing free the stamped, sealed envelope stuck to his door.

"You got them too?" she asked and he nodded back, tearing through the security tape and taking out the contents—a single page document, meticulously wrapped and secured.

"Here it is: orders from the General Staff in Diekirch to Space Forces troops in Leopoldsburg, Chièvres, or anywhere else in Belgium. We're to remain on standby until further orders, no alert condition given."

Walker folded the sheet in his hand and looked at Kanna. "If it sounds like a drill, and _looks _like a drill…"

"Then it's a drill?" Kanna asked.

Walker gave her an unassuming smile.

"Still enjoying having your bike back?" she asked jokingly.

"More than my face can register," he replied.

Putting a hand on her hip, she stared out the window at the sun setting over farm fields and outcroppings of trees. "I wish we knew what happened to E-063. I bet that closed meeting between the Foundation's old men was actually about that."

"I might have been. I just…" Walker began.

"Walker! I mean, sir! There's someone here to see you!" a voice shouted down the hallway. Its unmistakable owner came running up the stairs, Dac almost tripping over his boots, followed by a similarly anxious looking Mazuri following behind him. The later reached them first, pushing his glasses up from the tip of his nose and panting.

"What the hell guys?" Kanna asked, a little disappointed.

"It's not that we're not in bad shape. Those stairs are…not ergonomically designed," Mazuri excused himself, panting for breath.

"What does that even mean?" Kanna asked, hands apart, uniform tunic draped over her arm.

"There's two people here for you, sir!" Dac shouted again, as both men rose to their feet.

Walker was immediately worried—if Dac was calling him "sir" he thought he should be. Climbing up the stairs after them, slowly and deliberately, was a large man, practically Kanna's size if lacking her curves. The man wore a well-fitted navy blue suit and was very cleanly-kept. He had a goatee that when combined with his shaved head was a rather rare fashion, at least on Earth, and was of either Polynesian or South Asian descent, or a combination of the two.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for Lieutenant Walker," he said in a fairly deep, though not surprisingly so, voice. He was stern but at least appeared polite, but with his eyes hidden behind rimless sunglasses it was hard to consider it sincere.

"_Flight _Lieutenant Walker," Walker muttered, taking a step towards him, and he did the same. The large muscular man unsurprisingly towered over him, but Walker was more intimidated by just how _large _he was horizontally as well.

Kanna stood nearby, very still, muscles visibly tightened in her large arms, jaw clenched. Walker saw her out of the corner of his eye and endeavored to stand up straight and at least hide whatever worry he might've been conveying up to that point. The large man regarded him for a moment longer before saying the last thing he expected. "May I see some ID, sir?"

Walker blinked and pulled his goggles up over his cap before taking his military passport/identification booklet out from one of his pockets, flipping it open and handing it to the large man, who took it slowly and compared the image inside to the young man standing in front of him. He quickly handed it back.

"Thank you, Flight Lieutenant."

"I told you that wasn't necessary, Hale," a voice behind him chided quickly. A woman who was rather easy-on-the-eyes strolled down the hallway, heels clicking with each step against the hardwood floor. Three of the pilots were immediately occupied by her choice of attire, a costly-looking backless gown underneath a long laboratory coat she wore like a cloak over her shoulders. Kanna looked back at Walker briefly only to see for once he didn't share their level of surprise as he pulled on the hem of his uniform tailcoat and adjusted his collar. Now he even seemed calm, collected.

"Comrades, may I present Ms. Shalua Yuy, Romefeller's delegate from the Yuy Foundation," he said finally, after a very deliberate choice of words.

"I'm sorry for Hale intruding on you like this but he insisted," she said, giving the large man a quietly judgmental look with her one open eye. Hale immediately straightened his tie in a guilty fashion.

"And these are your subordinates in the Space Forces," Yuy asked, looking at the distinctive extraterrestrial military insignia visible on their caps and unit patches just below their shoulders.

Walker took a step to the side of Hale, towards her. "I'm very surprised to see you _here_, of all places, Ms. Yuy," he replied rather convincingly. Even before he could add anything, Mazuri elbowed Dac warningly in the ribs, causing him to cough through closed lips.

"I was here on business, as I'm sure you know," she replied with a discernable hint of accusation. Her right arm shifted underneath her coat before appearing in an elbow-length glove and she opened her palm. "I also wanted to return something of yours."

Kanna squinted—in the palm of her hand was small, circular object barely larger than one of the diamond-shaped rank pips on her epaulets. It took a little longer to realize it was a covert listening device, a tiny transmitter paired with an even tinnier microphone, all integrated onto a small microchip board with an adhesive backing. She remembered the incident on Luna, during the combat exercises, and a look of guilt immediately appeared on her face. By contrast, Dac and Mazuri simply looked shocked when Walker reached out and took the 'bug' from her, managing to appear rather faultless.

"I'm sorry, where are my manners," he said, pocketing the bug. "My first seat, Kaneshiro Kanna. And those two with the gaping expressions are Mazuri and Bishop respectively."

"It's nice to meet both of you," she said, keeping her right hand extended and turning to them.

"Likewise."

"Yes ma'am," Dac muttered, awkwardly shaking her hand. Not missing a beat she stepped towards Kanna, who reluctant took her hand.

"Yuy-_sama_," Kanna began, sounding very worried.

"Just _Miss _Yuy, please. As hard as it is to believe, I was voted into my position."

Having recovered just enough to look indignant, Mazuri very overtly rolled his eyes and stepped forward. "Well, _Miss _Yuy. I'm afraid if you came here hoping to find someone privy to Colonel Treize Khushrenada's agenda, you've come to the wrong place," he announced rather dramatically, gesturing at his comrades for effect.

Yuy's one open eye grew very harsh. "Is that true?" When none of them answered, she regarded each of them, one by one, stopping at Walker, who averted his own eyes quickly. "If there's somewhere we could speak more privately than the barracks hall, I'd appreciate it."

Just a few minutes later the four of them were sitting in the officer's dining room on the same floor. Hale, despite Yuy's request, remained by the door. Walker, peculiarly immune to the discomfort and suspicion that had afflicted his subordinates, carefully set a tray with a large metal teapot and a number of military-issue aluminum tea cups and began filling them from a matching teapot.

The three stared at him, similarly wide-eyed, as Yuy reached out with both arms from underneath her improvised cloak, taking the cup by its plastic heat-treated handle and carefully blowing on it. They watched as she took a small sip and looked up at Walker before crossing her legs.

"It's better than I expected."

"That must be whatever's left of the Scot in me," Walker surmised, removing his cap as he sat down.

"So you're Scottish?" Dac suddenly burst out, all eyes on him. He blushed and shrank back into his chair. "Sorry for trying to lighten the…never mind…"

Looking fairly at ease, she turned back to Walker. "I came here as a favor to a friend of mine," she said, reaching back into her coat. This time she produced a neatly-folded piece of paper, military stationary by the looks of it, unfolded it and held it at Walker.

"This is yours, isn't it?" she said, indicating the signature underneath the short paragraph of typed text. Just below it, there were a few handwritten lines in blue-black ink.

Walker had recognized the document even before she unfolded and took it from her. "Yes it is."

Yuy glanced at the other three. "If you'd rather it remain private, I'm…"

"My dear friend Walker," he interrupted her, reading from the lines. "I'd like to give you my thanks in person for your continued reports even with your time in captivity, but circumstances prevent me from doing so. That aside, they are no less valuable than yourself to my mission. It's for that reason I must decline your request for a transfer out of the Mobile Suit Troops to another branch of service on Earth. Of course, I can't and won't stop you from filing the same request to your divisional commander, who has full authority to grant it, but I ask you, as a comrade, to refrain from doing so in the immediate future. The skills and abilities of young officers like yourself, particularly those with experience in OZ's design bureaus, will be more precious than any number of divisions or battalions to the coming struggles."

He paused for a moment. "I still hope to thank you again in person, gratefully yours, T. Khushrenada." When he finished, Walker remained absolutely still, the letter in both gloved hands.

Yuy, considerably more relaxed, leaned back on her seat. "Something interesting to tell your children one day," she offered. The three other pilots stared at Walker with mixed levels of disbelief.

Some of the forced coolness and calm had left Walker's face when he moved again, turning his head slowly towards her. "I can't imagine you just came here to deliver a letter, Ms. Yuy," he said, his voice more than a little strained.

"I know how you feel about him, but you _do _understand what Treize was telling you, don't you?" She gave a sigh and shook her head, her orange-red ponytail shifting back and forth. "In any case, I think I need to explain it to your subordinates at the very least."

She turned directly to them, with one open eye and another closed. "Please pay attention, I'll only have time to say this once."

**VIII**

"Go ahead and ask, Mr. Talik."

In the middle limousine of the protected motorcade traveling down the _Rue Royale_, Flight Officer Tal looked into the rearview mirror at the seat behind him were Duke Dermail sat. He'd been under the impression that His Grace was resting or even asleep.

Tal wasn't sure where to begin, so he did it for him. "That old presentation pistol you retrieved—it was awarded to me when I graduated from the Alliance Academy at Sandhurst, many, many years ago, when I was around your age. At some point they stopped giving pistols and went back to presentations daggers."

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Those early days of the Alliance, I thought I might have a military career, but in the end I didn't."

Tal nodded slightly. "Your Grace, why did you…?"

"The theatrics with Treize?" he asked with a smirk. He then sounded almost sad as he answered. "You know I always envied Cinquante Khushrenada, Treize's own grandfather. That he could count among his own such an upstanding young man in his progeny." He chuckled. "Of course, I shouldn't have. Angelina Khushrenada's madness must have torn that poor boy apart from the inside-out. But after my son Chilias—Colonel General Chilias Catalonia to you—left us, I was even more envious. That such an exceptional example of the human race could emerge from that lunacy."

After a moment's pause, Tal wondered if this was something he really shouldn't know, and Dermail continued. "I doted on him, in my own way. Maybe not the same way I spoil my granddaughter Dorothy, but I did nonetheless. Which isn't to say that what Treize has he didn't earn, but he couldn't help but give a _certain _impression."

He gave tired sigh. "He's crossed a point now from which there's no turning back. However this ends, I want people to know, the _right _people, that family or not I'll do whatever it takes to stop him, and he'd do the same to me. When video of that summit leaks out, and it will, there'll be no spinning this as some misguided attempt by 'Old Man Catalonia' to cover for the indiscretions of Humbelt's boys," he said dryly.

Tal wasn't completely sure of just what His Grace was saying, and Duke Dermail seemed to realize as much from his silence. He smiled under his mustache. "You know, ever since I took you from Tubarov, I've wondered if I'd regret doing so," he told him. "And I haven't yet," he immediately added.

Tal seemed a little relieved at least. "Thank you, Your Grace."

"You're a good lad, don't think I don't realize that. While the rest of us royalty are busy psychologically scarring our children or sticking knives in each other's backs, its good lads like yourself that are the machinery beneath us that makes all of it possible." He raised an eyebrow. "I'm not sure if that's a compliment, really."

The flight officer cleared his throat. "What will you do now, sir?"

"Those orders from Luxembourg have delayed all those veterans from the extraterrestrial campaign for now. It'll be measured in minutes, but it's some reprieve nonetheless._ That_ machinery is in motion and it cannot be stopped." He closed his eyes again. "But there are top people already moving into place. _I _will get some much-needed sleep. First thing tomorrow, I'll speak with Dorothy about it."

"Understood, Your Grace." Following the limousine in front of him, Tal gently turned the wheel to make a right at the intersection.

A large lorry that technically had the right-of-way stopped well before it could pose any danger to the first car in the motorcade, much less the second one—it barely registered with Tal. Had he been paying closer attention to it, he would have seen that it was a canvas-covered troop truck loaded with the uniformed men of the Fusiliers-Grenadiers Regiment, traveling the opposite direction of the motorcade, out of the city.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_Another chapter posted in a timely manner, hurray! And with that, we've finished with episode 25, and thus, we begin the long-awaited arc covering the split between Romefeller Foundation loyalists and Treizists that I've been hinting at for ages. I considered calling this chapter 'Treize vs Dermail', just as the episode is called 'Quatre vs Heero', but thought that was a little corny. 'Rubicon' will have to work instead (hardly subtle though, is it?). _

_I'm actually fairly happy with how this chapter came out. I probably could have put it out a day or more earlier, but between _Diablo III _and _Armored Warfare_'s second open beta, I barely do any writing in the evening (plus, I actually bothered to proofread this chapter before I posted it at least once). For once, we have a fairly confident, cool Walker (except when Emi's around, for aforementioned reasons). Dermail Catalonia also makes a big appearance. I've long since decided it's much more enjoyable to write Dermail as a rational, even sympathetic actor who behaves reasonably in his own mind. I thought about skipping that rather ridiculous scene with the gun between him and Treize entirely, but I'm happy with the solution to pick. The thing about Dermail, and the Romefeller Foundation as a whole, is that for some sort of Illuminati-like secret society of the superwealthy elite, it's still 300 years removed from ourselves. 300 years ago, even the most liberal or egalitarian minds of their age, with a few exceptions, could not be considered by basic, nonradical standards as being either liberal or egalitarian. Their racism, bigotry and misogyny would be painfully obvious. Supposing a general trend as I have, even the most bourgeois or aristocratic minds would likely possess notions we'd consider radical or downright leftist. Less politically, we've already established that Dermail trusts and is even fond of his military adjutant, Abraham Tal, who, in turn, appreciates having such a powerful, influential man treat him with some respect (much better than most of _our _bosses treat us, I'd wager!). Of course, we know what happens to Dermail in the end...does that fate await Tal? You'll have to keep reading to find out!_

_Finally, I'm gradually pushing forward with my plans for Soletta (and Emi) as we go. Without spoiling anything, Soletta is not going to be doing the most obvious plot-related activity that you could think of, her use is further down the line. As always, please post your reviews. _


	55. Rubicon, II

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 55 – Rubicon, II**

When Marcus North arrived on _Barge_, the space fortress was not at all as he expected—compared to the divisional base at Leopoldsburg, life on _Barge _seemed utterly normal, even with the fortress only recently standing down from battle stations. It confused him until he realized what had changed since the last time he'd been there: Lady Une was gone, and her erratic, unpredictable reign of terror with her.

"Colonel North, sir, I'm...surprised to see you here," Major Bremer greeted the senior officer after saluting dutifully. "I wasn't expecting you.

"No, I know you weren't," North admitted as they stood at the back of the overbridge. "Sorry, I'm a bit tired from my trip—this is Chernenko from the Seventh Division's Third Company, I believe you've met."

Flight Lieutenant Chernenko, with bags under his eyes, managed to give a smart nod. "Good to see you well, Flight Lieutenant."

"Likewise, Major. If I may?" Without waiting for a response, Chernenko floated away and out of the overbridge.

"I thought the whole division had been relocated to Western Europe, what are you doing here, sir?" Bremer asked.

North didn't look him in the either—instead, he surveyed the command center slowly, from one end to another, pausing only briefly on the main monitor. "What happened to Une?"

Bremer's face did something strange; it went from acknowledgement to feigned confusion to believable helplessness. Then he bit down on his tongue shortly and forced a smile. "I actually don't know what happened to Colonel Une," he whispered carefully. "For that matter, I don't know what happened to Pilot Officer Barton either, nor do I care."

North raised an eyebrow and gave him skeptical if friendly look, despite looking quite exhausted himself. "I bet it's made your life a lot easier, Leo."

"You have no idea Marcus," he said, relaxing a little. "Seriously, what are you doing up here? No one just makes house calls to a space fortress."

North put a hand on Bremer's back and led him away from the officers on duty at their computer stations. "Would you level with me, Leo?"

"Of course."

"What happened to Colony L1-E-063?" he asked.

Bremer sighed—he should have known that question was coming, yet somehow it still surprised him. "That space colony _was _destroyed. The E-Area government, and the _space fleet_, are in the middle of massive refugee relocation mission, the likes of which we haven't seen since the 'Seventies." He glanced around and considered whispering. "So we're just offering refueling services, this is a space fortress after all, they have to have it under control without us."

"Was it a Gundam?'

More sighing from Bremer—he'd never been a skilled liar. "We're certain that it was a new Gundam. Lady Une was discussing it with Colonel Villemont before she left for C-102 or wherever the hell she is."

North nodded, apparently grateful. "That's a hell of a thing. When was the last time a whole _colony _was destroyed?"

Bremer shrugged. "Before the Alliance instituted martial law? I can't think of a case where a colony was _actually _destroyed. Heads are going to roll, aren't they?"

"One very specific head in particular, it seems," North replied softly.

Bremer looked confused again. "Who?"

At Leopoldsburg on Earth, Flight Lieutenant Walker was still standing in the barracks he'd been ordered to remain in. As his tea cooled, he stared at one of the few survivors of House Yuy, once the second most powerful family in Outer Space, only behind the Winners. The beautiful but maimed Colonial finished the last of the tea he'd poured for her, apparently unfazed.

"So what do we do, Yuy-_san_?" Flight Officer Kaneshiro asked after staring at Walker's clenched jaw.

"Nothing," she told her. "There's nothing you can do until Treize arrives at Luxembourg for his confinement. The sooner everyone realizes this, the better."

Flight Officer Mazuri stood up jerkily and began pacing along one wall of the room, back and forth, before stopping abruptly halfway and pointing at the door, past Mr. Hale. "Right now, those 'Rifles of Ghent' are moving to enforce a curfew. _If _we're lucky. And you want us to sit around and _wait_?"

"Damn it, Ajay, cool it!" Kanna hissed. "They're not going go across every military building in Leopoldsburg and shoot anyone wearing a uniform."

"How do you know that?" Mazuri shouted back.

"Because this _isn't _Nairobi. It's _not _'Daybreak'," she retorted, not bothering to hide the warning in her voice.

"Everyone needs to calm down," Walker interjected. He rose to his feet, wincing as he did, and looked around coolly. "Bickering among ourselves isn't going to accomplish anything."

He gestured to Yuy. "Ms. Yuy was kind enough to share her expectations to the Foundation forcing the Supreme Military Council to accept Treize's resignation, instead of kicking it down the road for someone else to deal with. She knows both the Romefeller Foundation and the World Congress of the U.N.O. better than anyone else in here," he explained authoritatively. "That means her expectations have a realistic worth."

She raised an eyebrow at Walker's rather methodically-worded praise. "So what's this 'grounding' then? Their version of house arrest?" Dac asked.

"The generic response to an 'unplanned' crisis, anything that the General Staff can't adequately prepare for. Just like in May," Mazuri grumbled.

"They can't place a whole division under 'house arrest', so this is probably just a precaution against any pilots getting a little loaded one night and deciding to vent their disapproval of the leadership on the Belgian countryside with a twelve-tonne war machine," Walker explained. "I mean, there's food, supplies, cooking and cleaning staff. The only limit to how long anyone can stay in the barracks is their own patience."

"In other words, a few days," Dac added. "I'm already starting to get stir crazy."

"You hide it well," Kanna offered.

"Really?"

"No."

"That aside, I'm not going to start on mutiny to prevent another of sorts," Walker repeated, raising his voice. "But as your commanding officer, if only by _technicality, _I'm going to take command—if anyone else in the barracks asks, don't repeat any of this to them. If a ranking officer asks, either fob them off or send them to me," he explained with clear reluctance.

"And in the meantime what do we do, _Tai-i_?"

"Exactly what Luxembourg said we do: we wait and remain on standby for an alleged drill. The General Staff's orders will _always _countermand mine," he reminded them. "Dismissed."

His three subordinates looked at him strangely for a few before Kanna assumed a military posture, bowed at either Walker or Yuy, and left past Hale, the other two following her. Shalua Yuy waited until they'd closed the door behind them to speak again. "What's wrong with your back?"

He feigned ignorance. "Nothing, just a slight knock on my back from last week."

Yuy didn't look convinced, but just gave an accepting tilt of her head. She turned to Mr. Hale, who'd remained so quiet that Walker had almost forgotten his presence. "Treize has already left Belgium under escort. I still don't know if I can follow him, but I'm going to try."

"I understand, ma'am. May…I ask you one last question?"

She crossed her legs again. "Go ahead."

"Have you spoken to any other company-grade officers about this? I mean, you obviously possess valuable insight that those of us who're only here because of our commissions must lack," he admitted warily.

She shook her head. "Only you—Treize asked for you by name after all," she told him, a thin smile briefly appearing on her face. "I tried to speak officers I knew in the First Recon Battalion, but it didn't work…as well."

Walker gave her a confused look.

"I barely had any time with him, thanks to the Foundation. But he did tell me, unlike yourself, they'd do whatever they wanted. Whatever they thought was right. And you don't want to upset people like that."

Mr. Hale, who'd put one leather-gloved hand to his discreet earpiece, stepped forward with some urgent reluctance, taking Yuy's attention. Self-consciously, Walker adjusted his collar and took a step away, seemingly out of earshot, though evidently not—aware that eavesdropping was generally considered rude, he could still hear most of what Hale whispered into his superior's ear.

"_The bodyguard regiment has started causing trouble in South Brussels. Army units have been withdrawn to confront them._"

"_Well, you did warn me that it'd be easier getting in here than out. We'll take the highway._"

"_What about the rest of your luggage?_"

"I really couldn't care less," she admitted, at normal volume. Yuy smiled for the first time, perhaps aware that Walker could hear them from the other side of the room, and subtly extended her right hand. Walker immediately strolled over to her and shook it, still holding Treize Khushrenada's letter in his other.

"I have to go, Flight Lieutenant. Thank you for your time."

Walker wasn't sure how to respond. "The…privilege was mine, ma'am," he managed to stammer out with only some perceptible difficulty.

**II**

The general orders issued by Luxembourg had turned Chièvres AFB into a ghost airfield—that, and the departure of Treize Khushrenada's staff. In spite of that, a 4WD military vehicle left the motor pool behind the officer's barracks, passed the half-dozen landed OZ-07AMS 'Aries' mobile suits, only to stop immediately next to the primary ATC tower. An Internal Army section on patrol watched them come to halt—when the four occupants seemed to stare at them directly, the patrol leader just saluted awkwardly before continuing on their way across the airfield.

Squadron Commander Ogasawara exited first, followed by Flight Officer Tsujimoto. The two backseats were occupied by Master Aircrew Serrati and Flight Sergeant Eshkol, both of the Fusiliers-Grenadiers Regiment. Between them sat a combat-grade field EHF/THF radio set, its long-range antenna extended to its full height, and a bulky power cell.

"You think they're going to come back after getting ahold of their platoon leader?" Tsujimoto asked.

"Did a Gundam destroy E-063?" Ogasawara replied rhetorically. "How's it sound?" she asked as Serrati and Eshkol egressed after checking the radio again.

"Still on schedule, ma'am. Say what you will about Transport Corps, they're very punctual," Eshkol explained, referring to the OZ's Terrestrial Transportation Corps, one of the branches of the armed forces that provided transportation for hardware in wartime in the place of civilian contractors.

"Good. We'll have about a half-hour, maybe twenty minutes after things start looking strange before they respond."

"That'll have to be enough to get those Aries."

"It's not too late to change your mind, Fidel," Ogasawara reminded him, her left arm underneath her cape and her presentation katana clinking as she reached into the 4WD and took out a 36 mm smoothbore flare launcher, commonly used by the army and air forces.

"Again, not a chance, Squadron Commander. I'm just sorry we can't stay longer," Serrati replied, taking the flare launcher and slinging it over his back.

"Call me 'Emi'," she told them as they departed from the vehicle.

They entered the base of the ATC tower, greeted by saluting armed enlisted men at the door. "Squadron Commander, ma'am!"

"I need access to the tower control," she announced, right to the point.

"Ma'am! I'm sorry ma'am, access to the tower is restricted, orders from Ghent Headquarters," he explained, sounding a little nervous.

"Don't do this, Corporal," Emi warned.

"Ma'am, I can't let you enter this building, now I have to ask that you leave and…" the corporal began, reaching forward towards her. Just before he reached her, she glanced over her shoulder at Serrati, who gave a slight nod. In a blur, he reached past her, grabbed the corporal's arm, and dragged him over his own shoulder and threw him over his shoulder with a loud _thud. _

The other enlisted man panicked and, aiming his carbine from the hip and switching off the safety. Nabiki took a step backwards away from him and Emi lunged forwards, her cape dropping onto a pile by the floor—in a single motion, she quick-drew her blade from its sheath and sliced him across the waist, splattering a thin trail of blood on the wall behind him. The man dropped with a sharp cry in pain, along with his weapon.

"Brilliant _Iaijutsu_, Emi," Serrati announced, fixing his uniform while Eshkol took the corporal's weapon and his shortwave radio, which he tossed to Nabiki. Emi flung the blood off her presentation katana against the floor and sheathed it, taking a deep breath.

"Just don't ask me to do it twice. I haven't done that in years."

"I was wondering why you had them give it an edge," Nabiki resopnded, drawing her own sidearm from the leather holster on her belt.

Emi nodded. "Eshkol, cover the entrance and see if you can do something for him—there's a first aid kit on the far wall, should be useful."

"Yes ma'am."

"First casualty of OZ's civil war," Nabiki muttered with a malicious grin, before following Serrati and Emi up the stairway. She flicked on the radio in her other hand, changing the frequency settings. "Damocles 1-2 to Damocles 2-1 and Damocles 3-1. Standby for emergence and ground action—look for the signal."

"_Acknowledge, Damocles 1-2_."

At the top of the tower, the lone pair of air traffic controllers immediately rose from their seats and tossed their side arms across the metal floor to Serrati as he entered first, carbine in his arms.

"Thanks boys," Nabiki chirped, sliding past the comparatively huge noncommissioned officer as she took one of the empty seats behind the center console and donned a headset. Emi led the two controllers to the windows past the controllers, where they stayed, and Serrati covered the entryway.

"This is Chièvres Tower to military shuttle, tail number Oscar-Zodiac-Delta-Two-Six-Nine-Seven on approach. Please respond."

Emi couldn't hear the response over the headset and instead surveyed the still-empty airfield. There was nothing to suggest that atypical emptiness wasn't going to continue as nightfall came.

"Acknowledged, shuttle. Continue on your approach, you are clear to land on runway two. We're going silent, so please hurry." After a short pause, she took off her headphones. "It's done."

"No offense, Fidel, but I'll take a half-shuttle-worth of CAST over two of Treize's bodyguards."

"I would too," he replied, switching places with Nabiki and charging his carbine. He shouldered it and looked like he was about to fire a sweeping burst across the computer consoles when he instead slung it over his back and looked at bank of controls, then carefully flipped the topmost row of switches. Immediately, all the consoles inside the air tower went dark, as did the overhead monitors.

Chambering a round with her own service pistol, Emi surveyed stood alone in the darkness, before turning to give Serrati a wary smile. "All right, now it's a war," she announced, the roar of a transorbital shuttle on final approach clearly audible through shaking window panes. The shuttle touched down on its landing gear, deployed its breaking chutes, and slowed down as its forward canards retracted back into its fuselage.

Nonetheless, the airfield remained conspicuously empty—a point that unnerved Serrati, who unslung the 36 mm launcher and fired a single red flare into the darkening sky.

"You think after this, they'll start restricting access to flare guns?" Nabiki asked, grinning.

"You think they would. Shoot someone in the chest with a thirty-six millimeter flare, it'll kill them," Emi muttered.

"I'm not going to ask how you know that," she replied as Serrati dropped the flare launcher and took out a pocket monocular. She watched a small group of ten officers, followed by a dozen enlisted in military police gear, maneuver from building to building towards the hangars. She looked forward of them, at the furthest hangar.

"I see 'em." Southwest of the tower, one of the three primary aircraft hangars doors retracted upwards. With a visible urgency, Chièvres Airbase ground crew were towing out a pair of supersonic Eurasian interceptor jets and a lone light military courier jet by means of three aircraft tractors. In short order, an airfield fuel tanker followed behind them.

"Top off that shuttle to a third fuel—just enough to get it to take off and to top cruising speed," Emi shouted at the ground crew.

"Yes ma'am!"

Emi put a gloved hand to her forehead. _How much fuel would that be? I really have no idea, we need someone who knows these sort of things. _

All three aircraft were already brought together in a line by the time the shuttle finished its taxi and came to a halt, its airstairs folding out near the rear.

Warrant Officer Cameron, in a hunter green daily uniform with bright red collar versus the maroon worn by the Mobile Suit Troops and the sky blue worn by the Terrestrial Air Forces, descended down the airstairs to meet the waiting officers, whom he saluted.

Emi took his saluting arm and pushed it down. "Save it, Cameron, I doubt they'll let us keep this airfield for long. You bring your combat gear?"

"Everything except our weapons, yes. Getting this shuttle from _Barge _was hard enough, Bremer and Nichol still have the station on full alert," he explained. "And then Colonel North shows up…"

"How'd you do it?" Nabiki asked suspiciously.

"You wouldn't believe all the hardware Une stockpiled under the table before she deserted. Not much in the way of rifles though." He looked over his shoulder as the other Colonial and Asteroid Strike Troops filed down the stairway and whistled. "Let me introduce our ship-to-ship ops expert. Carver, front and center!"

A relatively tiny, red-haired woman who managed to strain the buttons of her formfitting tunic slid down the airstairs handrail and landed flippantly on the tarmac next to them. Standing next to her, she was a few centimeters shorter than Nabiki. "This is Corporal Carver. Her age aside, she's actually well-built for this sort of operation, believe me."

"What's the prize, ma'am?"

Emi snapped her fingers and Eshkol brought up radio set, presenting it to Carver, who pulled the compact headset she was wearing around her collar over her ears, plugged into the audio jack and began adjusting the volume dial. Her large, blue eyes narrowed as she listened.

Cameron examined the radio set. "A gift from friends of His Excellency?"

"More the codes we needed to use it," Emi corrected him.

He looked around the runway and tarmac, still deserted except for the small number ground crew, the remaining mobile suit pilots and themselves. "So you really think it's going to come to this?"

"We can all kiss our military careers goodbye if it's doesn't," Nabiki smirked. "Actually, I think we can do that either way."

"That'll be the least of our problems if I'm wrong," Emi muttered, as she watched the ground crew drag out a missile carriage carrying four long-range supersonic air-to-air missiles, the purposefully-designed primary armament on interceptor aircraft. With impressive speed and efficiency, they started mounting them onto the two interceptors.

A military firing squad seemed likely, even guaranteed, depending on what happened next. She turned to Cameron. "Tell your troops to gear up and get ready to launch, the tower might be out of commission but that's not going to stop the army. I'm going up with you," she said, pointing at one of the Aries mobile suits.

"And the rest?"

By now, Cameron could see MS Troops officers gathering underneath the black-and-grey mobile suits, the furthest from him grabbing onto tethers and pulling themselves up. Pulling off her white gloves, Emi reached into one of her trouser pockets and took out what looked like a tube of lipstick, to Cameron's surprise. She surprised him again by drawing a red line on either side of her nose down her cheeks. Combined with her rather cold eyes, it gave her an almost-demonic appearance.

"They'll make sure we have somewhere to come back to, even if only for a few hours. Dermail Catalonia's going to regret locking up this battalion with someone _else's _mobile suits."

**III**

When Flight Officer Tal explained the situation to her, Dorothy Catalonia went from warmly cordial to rigidly hostile in the time it took for to circle around her sitting table and storm directly up to him. When she opened her mouth to speak, Tal preempted her, just as her grandfather had instructed him to.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Catalonia, but this really isn't up to debate. The Foundation Board of Governors has your next assignment waiting for you at their Copenhagen Legation. As a Foundation envoy, you've been ordered to report in immediately for training."

Dorothy looked away. "Copenhagen. But Denmark isn't…" she said, before stopping and looking back up. She seemed less angry at least. "So they finally sending me to the Scandinavian Theater. After all this time pleading."

"Yes ma'am."

"I suppose they went through this trouble to make me feel better about missing the battle that'll decide the future of my family as well as Earth-Sphere," she said accusingly. "Very well, Mr. Tal. Give me a few minutes to pack."

"Of course, Ms. Catalonia," he replied, as Dorothy promptly left for an adjoining room. Tal looked around the lavish penthouse in downtown Brussels, bit on his tongue and cleared his throat. "Just so you know, ma'am, we have the building under guard. So please don't…you know, try and escape via the fire escape."

Across the southern border, the same orders given to the Seventh Division had gone out across combat units deployed in the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg. In his office in the United Nations Department of Military Affairs in Luxembourg City, a first lieutenant escorted a senior officer to the Luxembourg Press Secretary. He found Lieutenant Colonel Andrews busy at his desk, his uniform coat hanging draped over the chair.

"Colonel Andrews, sir!"

Andrews looked up, his face pale and visible bags under his eyes. "Yes, what?" he shook his head. "I'm sorry, you called for me, didn't you? I had all the phone lines disconnected, the switchboard was completely overwhelmed for all four of my direct lines."

The first lieutenant stared at Andrews. "Sir, when was the last time you slept?"

"Two days ago. Eva, is that you? Oh thank god, it is you."

Behind Andrews' assistant, Major Cebotari, wearing a light coat over her uniform, stared warily at Andrews. His normally tidy appearance was disheveled and he'd neglected to shave as well. Eva had never seen him like this before, and he stumbled over to her and clasped both her hands.

"Hello Thomas," she said finally.

He gave an exhausted smile before frowning. "Where's that boy of yours, the mean one?"

"Second Lieutenant Parsons is at the Commissariat itself."

"Of course. I won't keep you any longer than I have to." He dismissed the officer who'd escorted Eva in and gestured at an empty chair. While his desk was a cluttered mess, the rest of his office looked neat as usual. "Can I get you anything? Water?"

"I'm fine, thank you," she insisted in a deep, breathy tone.

Andrew nodded and reaching over to his desk, poured a tall glass of cold water than he immediately emptied. "You saw the orders, right? To all the Mobile Suit Troops in here, Belgium, France, the Demilitarized Zone?"

"I did. You know they won't follow them for long?" she asked.

"Things are already starting in Belgium, where those suicidal hotshots in the First Recon Battalion aren't reporting in for orders," he stammered, almost dropping the glass. He stared at Eva, visibly panicking. "I have to say something to the press! I can't even leave this building!"

"I saw the crowd outside, it looks bad," she said, taking off her coat and neatly folding it before putting it on a small table near the door.

"What the hell do I tell them? There's still word that all of this is about the destruction of E-063, but it's not going to stay that way for long." He circled his desk and slumped down in the chair, his head in his hands. "Oh God, this is really happening. Treize just _had _to resign."

After a short roll of her eyes, Eva paced to his desk, crossed her arms underneath her chest. "It's not like this is your fault."

"Oh, I _know _that! Doesn't change the fact that it's happening though, does it? God, and Diekirch isn't even _trying _to stop it. Or they are and it doesn't make a damn difference."

Arms still crossed, she leaned towards him over the desk. "Thomas."

He looked up, biting down on his lip.

"It doesn't really matter what you tell them. This is an ideological rivalry, not a popularity contest."

"You think so?"

Eva actually wasn't really trying to hide her uncertainty—Thomas didn't seem to notice. She nodded calmly.

"What should I say?"

"Something convincing. They're after the blood in the water."

"Have you spoken to Treize?"

"A little. I know he's on his way back, eventually."

"Somehow, that will make things worse. I know it."

"Do you have another spot lined for him on a Taiwanese talk show?"

Andrews looked up and saw Eva smiling. She'd actually made a joke. He snickered before laughing loudly. "No, I really don't. I should call that woman, what's-her-name, Shion."

"Just do what you have to, Thomas. You handled the revolution that brought down the Alliance, you can handle Treize Khushrenada's resignation."

Thomas stared at her. He understood that her words of encouragement were largely meaningless, but he found them comforting nonetheless. "All right, I'll do it."

After shaking Thomas's hand once more, Eva dismissed herself, left the office and climbed back into a military car. In the ten minutes it took to drive to the Military Commissariat in Kirchberg, one of the northeast quarters of Luxembourg City, she checked her mobile for messages—among those she'd received, one marked urgent came from Edward Parsons.

**Where are you?**

"To the point as always," she said to herself.

**Just turning onto Chilias Catalonia Avenue**, she messaged back, referring to the major throughway that ran alongside d'Coque, home of the National Sporting and Cultural Center, the University of Luxembourg's Kirchberg Campus, and the former offices of the French National Bank in Luxembourg, now the Military Commissariat of OZ.

Then she saw three junior officers carrying large cardboard boxes out of the building, one after another. One dropped his box on the sidewalk and ran over to the car as it stopped, getting the attention of the driver.

"Great timing, we'll have enough boxes for you in just a minute," he shouted at the driver, before turning and saluting Eva as she exited the car.

"What's going on?"

"Major, ma'am! The archives department has already begun the off-site data transfer, so we're just moving all our physical copies for shipment."

Eva had to follow the junior officer back up to the entranceway after he dropped off his box, which the others began loading into the car she'd exited.

"Wait, what do you mean, off-site transfer? What are we shipping?"

"Everything, ma'am. Emergency departure protocol." His eyes widened—she hadn't heard. "The order came down from the Undersecretary General of the Supreme Military Commission: the whole Commissariat is being relocated to the U.N.O. military councilor's office in Whitehall."

Eva stared at him. It was a very rare thing for to be shocked into silence, but that had done it.

"Ma'am?" he repeated. She gave a wordless nod, which he took as permission to department and bring out more boxes from the marble-floored lobby of the former bank.

When she entered herself through the still-manned security checkpoint, she found the chronically-understaffed Commissariat was completely preoccupied with packing up the data-bearing contents of each office—not just books, but also portable computers, discs, and even spare mobiles—into clearly-labeled boxes and bringing them outside. When she found Second Lieutenant Parsons, he was already unceremoniously sweeping the contents of the top of his desk into a mostly-filled box, including a number of pens and a stapler, smashing the lid on it and taping it up.

"There you are! Took your time, huh?" E.P. shouted to be heard over the noise the building practically being emptied, room by room.

"I just got in, I stopped by the press office to see Colonel Andrews," she said, watching him toss the box onto a stack of similar ones. "When did the order come in from the Undersecretary General?"

He checked his wristwatch unnecessarily. "Two hours, thirty-two minutes ago. Welcome back to Earth, by the way. You should probably see that one of the custodians who stays behind feeds those fish of yours."

"What?" she asked, sitting on the edge of his now-empty desk.

"You know, in your aquarium," he said, turning away and walking to the corner. By a now-empty bookshelf, a lone server tower, roughly the size and weight of a short filing cabinet thanks to its shielding and redundant network modems and power supplies, sat undisturbed. He flipped a large switch on the side and its various status-indication lights dimmed and unplugged the cables in the back before he began pushing it away from the wall. "Hey, could you find me a dolly or something, I think I saw…"

The cabinet abrupt slammed back into the wall it had been resting against, and E.P. looked to see Eva's left boot pressed against the front panel, then turned to see a pair of menacing red eyes staring back at him.

"_Why_?"

He had a feeling she wasn't referring to the server itself. "News travels fast. The emergency orders issued by the General Staff are already starting to fall apart. Treize's barely out of Belgium before his bodyguard regiment stops checking in. Then those blowhards in First Recon start doing reconnaissance _outside _their mobile suits around Brussels, because to hell with the General Staff apparently. God knows what they have up their sleeve, but we'll learn what it soon enough." He held his arms apart. "If that's happening in Belgium, what do you think is going to happen here, in Luxembourg, Khushrenada's own back yard?"

"They think the battalion's going after the Western European Air Army's Aries mobile suits?"

He shrugged. "We're not bloody waiting around to find out. Orders are orders. And if turns out to be nothing, hell, Whitehall's real nice this time of year anyway, isn't it?"

'Orders are orders' was the last thing she expected to hear out of Parsons' mouth. She removed her boot from the server tower and turned to the door, walking out slowly.

"You really need to pack, Major!" he shouted after her. "Last flight for all offices leaves Luxembourg City at twenty-two hundred hours! After that, it's…" he said, trailing off. When she didn't respond, he just shook his head and began to try moving the heavy piece of equipment.

"She better not do anything stupid," he mumbled before taking a deep breath and dragging it towards the door.

**IV**

"Where did Yuy-san go?"

Walker was sitting at the small desk in his own room, a nearly-completed plastic model of an OZ-07AMS 1/100 scale sitting in front of him. "Back wherever she came from. Maybe to scare other officers," he speculated. "Do you remember that surface combat exercise we were part of on Luna, back in August?"

"Sure."

"I ran into her inside the Marius Crater Factory. Though we'd met once before, briefly in Bremen.'

Kanna looked impressed and worried simultaneously. "Really?"

"I didn't really have any idea of who she was until now. And I still don't understand why she was there of all places, though it's not like I had a good reason either."

Her chest heaving with a deep sigh, Kanna touched a finger to her forehead and closed both eyes. "So, according to her, the colonel resigned because of the new mobile dolls developed by Tubarov's design bureau on Luna, which were going to be bring about an end to the different anti-Alliance campaigns on Earth."

Finger still against her forehead, she opened one eye. "But the Foundation probably knew he was going to do that. So the only way to demonstrate that the military isn't entirely dependent on him to lead it is to have the Supreme Military Commission arrest him for insubordination. They're probably not going to charge him or anything, but they can't just take insult sitting down. There's probably a secret list of possible replacements from among the lieutenant colonels on Earth and in the General Staff."

She opened her other eye and lowered her arm, now looking at Walker. "So the order goes out to have the whole Mobile Suit Troops, really where most of OZ's veterans from the Alliance are serving and where you'd find most of the loyalists to Treize Khushrenada from the old days, stand down, from Central Europe outwards. By the time all orders circulate, a new commander-in-chief for OZ, or at least a provisional civilian administrator, should already be appointed by the commission."

"And the General Staff agrees because the colonel told them to agree to it, and because they don't want a bloodbath where officers are murdering each other in their barracks," Walker finished for her. "They're using the physical limitations of the military bureaucracy like it was a car bumper, hoping to minimize the force of His Excellency's resignation. That's the gist of it."

As usual, Kanna got straight to the heart of matter. "Do you think she's right?"

Walker made no attempt to hide his uncertainty this time. "I really don't know. I don't know how she would know, but I can't argue that she must be incorrect either." He crossed his arms and scowled. "Didn't I once say something about the importance of knowing what you didn't know?"

Kanna likewise crossed her arms over her chest. "If Treize…His Excellency was going to resign, or did, wouldn't it have to do with E-063, that the military _seriously_ screwed up? And since Lady Une is either missing or useless, it would be his responsibility?"

"That's what I would think to. But to hear it from her, this whole thing sounds like some family squabble that's risen to the surface."

"But how _would_ she know? What do the Yuys have to do with the Khushrenadas or the Catalonias?"

"Nothing, I always thought." He recalled that time he'd spent in at the Heero Yuy Memorial Library on Luna, studying books he'd never have looked at on his own.

_Why can't you show up when I want you to, Eva Cebotari? _"Maybe he just…told her?" Walker guessed helplessly. "I guess it doesn't matter _how _she knows, just what she knows."

"There must be someone we could ask," Kanna muttered, making it clear who she meant.

Walker nodded. "Jun Hono."

"Who?" Kanna asked. Less a question and more a bit of self-certain teasing.

Walker shook his head. "I know who you mean, and as much as I've been avoiding her, if I could, I'd ask her. I suppose the First Recon Battalion is still at Chièvres, could we just…call them? Ring up Squadron Commander Ogasawara, ask if there's been a mutiny, and if so, what side she will be on?"

Kanna had already taken the handset off a wall-mounted phone and presented it to Walker, a nonchalant smile on her face. He suppressed his own chuckle. "In that case, I might as well call His Excellency himself, except I don't have the number for the aircraft he would've taken." He cocked his head. "Do you think she'd even tell me if I did ask?"

Kanna raised an eyebrow. "To be honest, no. I think she hates your guts."

Walker did chuckle at that, pressing a key for the operator and holding the handset to his head.

"You'd be better off calling the colonel."

"It's engaged," he announced upon hearing a busy tone.

"Of course, what were we expecting?"

"That, or they cut the lines and I can't tell the difference," he admitted. "Dac swore he saw a pair of interceptors taking off from the direction of Chièvres a half-hour ago, right after Ms. Yuy left."

"Dac swears he sees a lot of things," Kanna muttered back as she took the handset back.

Putting his hands together and nodding, Walker turned his chair to face her directly. "Assume it was all true. That we're on the cusp of a civil war on Earth that'll drag every soldier, officer and pilot in OZ into it. What would you do?"

Kanna subtly flexed her arm muscles over her chest. "I'd follow your orders."

Walker laughed abruptly. "Now you're cheating."

"No I'm not!" she laughed back.

Walker shook his head and looked back with a melancholy smile. "You know what I'd like? If none of this were happening. If His Excellency and the Romefeller Foundation and the Supreme Military Commission could all just keep playing nice. If you put a gun to my head and asked me," he said, illustrating with his right hand, "I don't _mind _the mobile dolls. At least, not as much as I probably should as an active-duty unit commander. I wanted out of the Mobile Suit Troops anyway, didn't I?"

Kanna just shrugged to convey her disagreement. Her sympathies were clear and unmistakable, a welcome change.

"Of course, I doubt anyone—not Duke Dermail, not Treize Khushrenada, not even Tubarov Villemont, wants to see everything burn to the ground. They may hate one another, but not enough to jeopardize everything OZ has worked towards. At least, I thought that was the case." He frowned. "I'm not suited to be a politician, and wonder if I'm even suited to be a pilot."

Kanna put her hands on her hips. "This again. You're a better pilot than you give yourself credit for—you destroyed one Gundam and almost destroyed another."

"I _disabled _a crippled Gundam that could not fight in space, and was _killed _trying to destroy another Gundam," he reminded her.

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever, sir."

Walker looked back at the plastic model before pressing in the clear yellow-colored plastic of the viewport for the main camera housing with a small screwdriver. "It's not something you forget when you were in the same class as Zechs Merquise. I knew I'd never be half the pilot Zechs was—and I was fine with that. I thought I might be able to be as good an officer though. As if the choices were between a leadership unit called an _officer_ and a combat unit known as a _pilot_." He looked back up at her. "Now's the time to be an officer."

After the audible clicking of the plastic, he put down the screwdriver and the model and stood up. "Whatever we do—fight or run—we owe it to one another to stay together. We've come this far together, haven't we?"

She nodded in agreement. "I know I don't feel the same way about Treize Khushrenada, but I can tell there's something people see in him, that _you _see even if I don't, and part of you wants to answer the call when it comes." She cocked her head. "You're more a warrior than you realize, sir."

Walker gave her another incredulous look. "Whether you believe it or not, we're with you, Tai-i. Ajay and Dac might never admit it, but we are."

Walker managed to at least look convinced and appreciative. "You always look out for me, Kanna."

She gave him a soft punch on the shoulder by her standards. "'Course I do. But I won't always be around."

"Oh, I know you won't, you're meant for greater things I'm sure. And when you're a flight lieutenant yourself, I can only hope your second seat reaches that bar you've already raised."

She grinned cockily and put touched a finger just under her nose. "Hah! Don't count on it!"

Walker was still laughing at her response when Mazuri barged into the room, very agitated and with Dac in tow. Mazuri was nearly out of breath. "Something's…going on, sir."

"I can see that Mazuri," Walker replied sardonically.

"Hah…hah," he growled back, trying to recompose himself while waving his right hand. "Pen, I need a pen, sir."

Glancing at his desk, Walker pushed aside the remaining plastic runners and model parts and found a red pen, which Mazuri took before leaning against the adjacent wall where a regional map was pinned. Yanking off the cap with his teeth, he circled Brussels.

"The military in Belgium, the OZ military anyway, consists of Sixtieth George Cross Ground Division, and the Second and Third Battalions."

"_Paracommando_," Dac added.

"Yes, Paracommando. We snuck next door, where they've got a working military shortwave. Everyone was going nuts over seeing E-SPAN and the BBC covering all the fracases in Brussels proper, and after we found our mobiles were all offline…"

"Wait, what's going on in Brussels?" Walker asked.

"Our mobiles are offline?" Kanna asked, yanking her own out and checking the display.

"Jesus Christ, do _none_ of you watch the news? _Dac _watches the news!" he barked, pointing at the younger pilot.

Dac stuck is tongue out briefly before taking over, as Mazuri slid into an empty chair. "So, that bodyguard regiment of Colonel Treize's, the ones we saw? Apparently since he left, they took their trucks downtown and started getting a rise out of people, you know sir, driving real fast, confiscating Belgian government property, that sort of thing. So the Second and Third Paracommando Battalions, which were southwest of Brussels, were ordered to 'restore order' or whatever."

Walker's features had turned cold, but he said nothing, so he continued. "_That _was all on the news. What they didn't mention was that _something's _going on at Chièvres Airbase, where those two battalions were originally posted near, and where the Mobile Suit First Recon Battalion is being _housed_."

Mazuri stood up and began drawing. "Dac got the uncharacteristically clever idea to see if anyone else was going stir crazy. Turns out Winthrop's boys are, and they're just across the street and they've been trying to follow the news ever since all the Network access went down and all the phone lines got disconnected or whatever." He drew two lines indicating the Paracommando Battalions. "Minutes after those Paracommando troops were in Brussels city limits, First Recon started pulling _something _at Chièvres"

"What do you mean, something?"

"What do you think, sir? Actually, we don't know. What we _do _know is that the Sixtieth Division, which is dispersed all over Belgium awaiting leave, was called back up and some units are already descending on Chièvres, including the one that was posted here at Leopoldsburg to babysit us," Mazuri finished, circling Leopoldsburg on the map and drawing lines from it to Chièvres. "The bastards left so quietly we barely noticed, the Europeans know how to build some _quiet _troop trucks. There's barely a company of MP_s _left behind."

"Yeah, no kidding. The lieutenant's bike is louder," Dac jeered.

"So?"

Walker looked at Mazuri, his face having returned to a familiar calm but concerned neutrality. "I'm sorry?"

"Oh, don't give me that, sir! This is the start of it, the ram has touched the wall! Like Shalua Yuy warned us, the zealots from the Recon Battalion aren't going to take Treize Khushrenada's forced retirement standing down, and what are they an hour down the road from? The bloody _headquarters _of the Romefeller Foundation. Someone's going to pay, and we're going to be in the middle of it." Mazuri warned, his eyes extremely wide and his voice manic.

"Yeah, and our orders are to, what? Hide under our beds while the descendants of European nobility get into a shooting war with the _other _descendants of the same nobility?" Dac asked.

"'Doesn't look like it's just them, boys," Kanna announced from the room's window.

The three crowded around and behind her in time to see another Seventh Division officer—Flight Lieutenant Kim, still wearing a bandage on the side of his head—accompanied by three other pilots being accosted by white helmets and holsters after a short shouting match.

"Oh, well, that's is just bullshit," Mazuri declared. "What, do they think with the colonel gone, _they're _the General Staff now?"

"Try and see it from their perspective," Walker mumbled softly. "I'm sure they're tired of dealing with _prima donna _pilots too."

"Well, this isn't gonna' work," Kanna announced, pulling off her tunic and shirt to reveal a wrinkled, bright red tank top underneath. "Just sitting here, we won't know if we're following orders or engaging in mutiny or what. Inaction's only correct one-third of the time."

"Japanese proverb?"

"No. A Kanna-ism," she boasted. "It's….what, eighty meters to the next building? Do Winthrop's boys still have that radioset?"

"For now, probably," Dac guessed.

"Then I want to hear this myself. Between Kenyan aces and Colonial _bijin_, I'm tired of always getting the secondhand story. Now move it, Dac!"

Groaning softly, Bishop nodded heading for the door, before Mazuri grabbed his shoulder. "Wait, you're taking Dac?"

"Ajay, you barely made it up the _stairs_."

"We had to take the…I'm fine!" he insisted defensively, undoing his collar. "I'm fine, really!"

Dac raised an eyebrow. "I really don't know if I should be offended or grateful."

Walker straightened his back and begun unbuttoning his tailcoat. "I'm coming too."

"Tai-i, no, please stay here," Kanna asked, tying her tunic around her waist.

"Why?"

Kanna sighed. "Because if we're found, at least we can claim we were only disobeying you."

Walker nodded reluctantly and sat back down. "Very well then, I'll wait for the call from the military police then," he said with a smile. He didn't sound like he was joking, further confirmed when he checked his wristwatch. "How about twenty minutes before I assume everything's gone wrong?"

Kanna blinked before sticking out her own wrist, with the same general issue-quartz wristwatch they'd both received upon being commissioned into the _Speciali_ years ago, but a few seconds behind. Walker counted down from three, and the two synchronized their timepieces as much out of force of habit as anything. In time with their watches, Mazuri took several deep, controlled breath.

"There's some wine and cheese in the mess hall if you need to post our bail," he said, forcing a familiar grin just as Kanna grabbed him by the shoulder and dragged him out of the room.

"Come on, funnyman."

Walker and Dac watched them leave, the later resisting the urge to comment on Mazuri's statement.

"Good luck."

**V**

Two mobile suit strategic airlifters belonging to the 12th Transportation Brigade, subordinate to the 6th Transportation Battalion out of Lake Baikal Cosmodrome in the Siberian Military District, took the 'safe route' circling most of the Lolland Demilitarized Zone on their way Casement Airbase, outside Dublin. This, combine with the departure of the surviving Gundams from Earth, allowed for a much lower density of escort for them compared to Operation 'Amur'—a mere four fighters, two of which broke off over Baltic Sea to be replaced by another two when the aircraft reached the North Sea.

During that period of a few minutes with only two aircraft escorting, the aircrews aboard either Antonov remained at ease. The pilot and first officer of the lead aircraft undertook a shift change, while the flight engineer drummed his hands along to the soft rock tune playing audibly from a pair of headphones he wore along with his actual aircraft headset.

The new pilot and first officer rolled their eyes at him as the later took his seat at the front of the flight deck, then glanced down the long, narrow cabin lined with instruments on either side.

"Michele."

The flight engineer raised a hand in response, still bobbing his head in time to the music.

"Michele, if you're going to enjoy yourself so much, would you consider something a little more recent, _not _from the stupid age?" she asked, eliciting a chuckle from the first officer.

He pulled off his headphones, leaving his headset around his neck as he did. "Oh, come on, the best part is coming up!" he said, pulling the cable out of the jack and quickly turning the volume control near it, filling the flight deck with the melody.

"I highly doubt that," the first officer muttered, which got an approving hand slap from the pilot before she snickered and glanced out the flight deck windows—one of the two escort jets was visible keep a near-constant distance of about 320 meters.

"_If I knew you were drowning, I would not lend a hand….I've seen your face before, comrade, but I don't know if you know who I am…_" the flight engineer began singing softly, stretching his legs out in his swiveling seat.

"Oh my god," the navigator/radio operator announced, not taking his eyes from his station but shaking his head nonetheless. "That doesn't even make any sense, what is that, a song for sociopaths?"

"You know why six is an ideal aircrew?" the first officer asked him.

"Why?"

"So the radio operator can hold down the senior flight engineer while the secondary engineer beats him."

The navigator laughed, only to be shushed by the engineer. "Here's it is, best drum solo in any song, ever," he told them, holding a pen in either hand like a drumstick. "_But I-I-I know the reason why you keep your silence, no you don't fool me! Well the hurt doesn't show, but the pain-n still grows, it's no stranger to you and me!_"

With maximum dramatic flourish, Michele struck an imaginary drum set in time with the subsequent fourteen notes. During the last two 'snare' notes, an alarm blared in the cockpit and an explosion ripped the back of the escort fighter with shrapnel in a clearly visible firewall. Michele fell out of his seat when shockwave from the blast shook the aircraft.

"What the hell was that?!" he snapped before picking himself up.

"Was that a missile tone?"

"Bogeys, two, just came up on radar, heading one-seven-three, altitude approximately one-three-thousand, distance one-eight-zero-thousand!"

"Parachutes spotted from escort fighter!"

"One hundred and eighty _kilometers_? That must have been a long range interceptor, since when does the Alliance still have any of those?"

"Our other escort's being targeted!" the first officer shouted, pointing at it visually through the windows as the aircraft rapidly turned and banked, another missile rapidly accelerating past the transport aircraft and towards it at no slower than Mach 5. Both soon left their field of view.

"Other escort's hit, engine dead!" the navigator announced, clutching his headset.

"Wait, that's not two…three hostiles, same heading. One of them's a mobile suit!"

The pilot and first officer simultaneously pushed the throttle bar to full power and the aircraft lurched as its four massive Progress EA-28T high-bypass turbofans propelled it to its top attainable speed with its load. The radio operator was sending out a distress call when an incoming broadcast came through over THF.

"_Attention, transport aircraft tail numbers Oscar-Zodiac-Tatyana-One-Nine-Nine-Two and Oscar-Zodiac-Foxtrot-One-Eight-One-Five. This is the black mobile suit closing in on you. Ignore the two interceptors you've now confirmed, they are not pursuing you. At maximum speed, you cannot outrun me. Change altitude to nine-thousand and throttle down to cruising speed of eight-hundred and remain on your designated heading. Attempt no maneuvers or evasions. I will now fire a warning burst. If you intend to comply, wait until after my burst and blink your landing lights twice, one short, one long,_" a woman's voice commanded sternly.

Good on its pilot's word, once the Aries closed in to within 60 kilometers of both aircraft, it fired a single burst of 90-mm APFSDS fire, its tracers visibly passing between them. Without another word, the pilot toggled the runway lights twice as instructed.

"_Good. I'm addressing the pilot of OZ-T1992 now. Respond._"

She swallowed before flipping the switch and touching her mouthpiece unnecessarily. "This is Senior Lieutenant Olga Nemerov, Twelfth Transportation Brigade responding. May I ask who I'm speaking to?"

"_This is Damocles One, Olga_," the woman replied quickly. "_You're should now have seen lone courier aircraft approaching, heading two-thirty. It will match speed approximately a hundred meters ahead of you, upon which you will both decrease your speed to six-hundred and you will be boarded via your dorsal hatch. After which, commandos in armored normal suits will board your aircraft. They will be armed, and will take control of your aircraft. Attempt no resistance. Attempt no evasive maneuvers, or I will jeopardize the other aircraft and shoot you down. Do you confirm?_"

"I acknowledged, Damocles One."

"_Engage your autopilot now._"

"Acknowledged," she muttered before punching the designated airspeed and altitude into the autopilot control panel above her instruments. It was barely a few minutes before the courier aircraft appeared directly ahead, and second afterwards the loud clang of an aerial soft dock followed by the mechanical locking of a hard dock, with the aircraft literally resting on top of their own. Through the closed door of the flight deck cabin, they could hear hatches opening and a ladder striking the floor, before it swung open itself.

On the other side was a rather short, almost coquettishly-shaped armored female spacesuit in dark green and grey colors, carrying a machine pistol mounting a bulky anti-personnel sensor with a visible display.

"What the hell, it's CAST," the flight engineer muttered, instinctively raising his hands over his head.

The small spacesuit tapped the insignia on its arm twice as it to confirm it. "Any of you armed?" a slightly shrill, mechanically-processed but clearly feminine voice asked while another, larger spacesuit dropped into place behind it after some difficulty getting through the hatch.

"No, everything's in the armory safe. There are six loading crew in the main hold and another two aircrew in the rear cabin."

"We know ma'am," it assured her, before it reached for its helmet seals, demagnetized and unlocked them before pulling off its helmet.

Underneath was an almost comically young and definitely non-frighteningly-looking woman with a crop of longish, crimson-red hair, large blue eyes and a few small bandages adorning her face. She gave a genuinely apologetic, even embarrassed look. "I'm sorry to hafta' ask, ma'am, but would ya' mind getting into the back with them?"

The aircrew exchanged looks and slowly began undoing their restraints, with the exception of Michele, who stared Corporal Carver, as her nametag identified her, in the face as he slowly walked filed passed her. "What are Colonial Strike Troops doing boarding an OZ transport aircraft over the North Sea?" he muttered in bewilderment, the most obvious question coming to mind.

"Yeah, again, sorry about that sir," she apologized. Behind her back, she gestured at two boarders, who waited as the aircrew slowly filed out of the flight deck before taking the pilot and first officer's seats. Machine pistol still raised from the hip, she slowly led them through the short hallway and down the extended stairs into the repair and work stations that lined the huge cargo compartment. Another pair of CAST were already waiting for them in an adjacent rest area for mechanical staff, where the loading crew was waiting in their grey working uniforms, alongside the pilot and first officer whose shifts had ended just a few minute earlier.

"So, you're going to board the other aircraft as well?"

With a slightly guilty expression still, Carver put her hands up in a disarming manner, a gesture made useless by the automatic weapon she was carrying, before turning for the door.

"What does CAST need with _twelve _mobile suits?"

She seemed to ignore that inquiry and kept proceeding forwards. "They're not for _them_," the first officer muttered finally before adding, "…dumbass."

"Where are you even taking us? Are you even going to let us go then?" Michele demanded in indignant panic.

This time, Carver turned, revealing a handkerchief clutched in her empty left hand. She was biting onto it, pulling it taunt with her teeth, tears welling up in her eyes. "I…I can't believe you'd think we'd _do _that to you!" she whimpered through her teeth.

The twelve imprisoned crewmen and officers stared at the corporal until one of the troopers standing by the door began snickering uncontrollably under his helmet, turning into laughter. Carver turned to him, cloth still in her mouth and gave an accusing stare. "Oh, come on, Carver, we already got their plane, you want the shirts off their backs next?"

She spat the handkerchief out and threw it at him. "Bite me, Sergeant. It would have totally worked," she snapped back, slamming the door shut behind her. "All right, guys, let's take the other one. I'm sure the glorious squadron commander didn't hire us to sit around, basking in our own superiority," she declared, taking a glance over the edge at the six black mobile suits sitting in their support cages, powered down and still wrapped in canvas for transport.

She shook her head. "Never get me in one of those tin cans."

**VI**

As it turned out, barely five minutes sitting in the same room as his friend-turned-unit commander was too much for Dac Bishop to comfortably tolerate, and after that he excused himself to drink some of the slightly-burnt tasting coffee in the large pot in the first floor common area. He took a sip from an out-of-box dark blue mug with the Earth Forces emblem painted on it, frowned at the bitterness, only to drink the rest of it and feel the urge to have another cup. On what would have been his third cup, he now felt the urge to grab another new mug, rinse it out, and pour a cup for Walker. He was close to wondering if Walker would want cream and sugar when he realized what he was doing and dropped the cup into the sink loudly before stormed back up to the stairs, blaming the coffee for altering his judgment.

He found Walker still in his room, the door opened, snapping the last few parts of the plastic model into place with an almost serene air. Without looking back, he checked his wristwatch, then rested both arms on the desk and sighing deeply. "How was the coffee?"

Dac reckoned he must have heard the banging from the sink. "Pretty…average, I think," he admitted before adding, "…sir."

"You don't call me 'sir' around Kanna or Ajay, I don't see why you'd do it in private, Dac," Walker said, still staring at the black plastic model. He poked it with the thin model knife, as if testing its stability.

"Right…" Dac glanced around the small room, looking for another chair. He ended up sitting on Walker's immaculately-made bed. "No word from either of them, huh?"

"Not yet, no."

He stared at the back of Walker's head, short, straight, slightly shaggy brown hair. There was barely a year between the two of them, but staring at the back of his head, it didn't quite feel like that little. Biting down on his lip, he fell backwards onto the bed, bouncing a bit before speaking. "Do you remember how I got the idea for taking the career path into the officer corps?" he asked, overly loudly and stiffly.

Walker looked up from his wristwatch, then turned and looked over shoulder. Dac expected him to look genuinely surprised, only to be disappointed when he didn't. "I remember you won an apprenticeship at Lake Victoria as part of a musical scholarship, that your grandfather was a colonel in the Alliance Space Forces, making you and Rani, as with myself, preferential if not legacies."

He wasn't missing a beat. "Do you remember winter of 'One-Ninety?"

Walker frowned. "I…believe I do, why?"

Some satisfaction. "You remember that week I vanished during winter break?"

Now he looked genuinely confused. "You went home while Rani and I joined the Christmas camping trip at Victoria Falls. Why?"

"I didn't go home. Well, I did, but not for the reasons you think. I was going through the Main Library, just bored because I hated camping and passed on the trip. I also remember _you _and my _sister_ and everyone else lecturing me about 'wasting' my time listening to music for hours, and I wanted to prove to you I could read a book of my own accord. So I finally finished _Storm of Steel _when I found a copy…"

"It would have been better if you'd done when it was an assigned reading."

"Will you let me finish? Anyway, I finished _Storm of Steel_, I finished the practical texts on mobile warfare that were assigned for the spring semester, and so forth. I was probably at the library for sixteen hours a day, at least."

"When did you go home?"

"It was after I found a book—not a reference text or a biography or anything. It was just sitting in the fantasy section on the fiction shelves," he said, gesturing with his fingers. "A long one. Probably unread for ages. I think it was called _The Black Swordsman_, and it was a translated adaptation from either Before Colony Chinese or Japanese. Anyway, it was this amazing, horrifying medieval fantasy story, the most terrible thing I'd ever read. It took those overused ideas of loyalty between comrades, knightly loyalty, chivalry, courtly love and so forth, and turned them on their head in the worst possible way imaginable. But I couldn't tear myself away from it."

He saw Walker staring at him, actually looking somewhat confused. "It _really_ wasn't something a thirteen-year-old should read. I had nightmares for _weeks _after it, and would just start crying for no reason during the day. But I kept reading it because I _had _to know how it ended."

"How did it end?" Walker asked predictably.

"That's the worst part—it didn't. It was the first volume of an adaptation, like some sort of horrible, terrible version of John Tolkien filled with betrayal, torture and rape. You know, that officer from the Lancashire Fusiliers in the Twentieth Century, except none of his stories left mental scars. By the end of it, I couldn't take it anymore, so I took a flight back to North America and showed up on my parents' doorstep. I guess I just really wanted to see that they were alive, unharmed like they always were, with my own two eyes."

Dac looked genuinely disturbed but continued. "I eventually found out there were other volumes out there, that the story continued for many more books. I could never bring myself to read them though, the more time passed the more terrified I was of the story. As though just remembering it gave it some sort of supernatural power.

"That aside, Rani complained to me that you told her you were going to finish your cadetship and apply for a commission, and how disappointed she was. I was a year behind you, so I had time to think about it myself, and I decided I'd try to stay at Lake Victoria as well. So I managed to pass the USCE by the skin of my teeth and became Officer Cadet Bishop."

Walker frowned. "So that book…?"

"Before the book, I didn't know if I was cut out to serve in the Alliance military of all places, but the idea of joining the Special Mobile Suit Troops was incredibly exciting. And somehow, it looked like I might just manage to beat the million-to-one odds. But that story, about war and torture and betrayal—it scared the hell out of me."

"But you stayed with it, you beat those odds, and got your commission?"

He nodded. "I had this inescapable fear that if I followed Rani and just finished my apprenticeship, that if I just went back to my normal life in Windsor and passed up the chance of a lifetime, it would have been because of _that _book. Not because I wasn't the best at theory, or the best pilot, or wasn't a genius when it came to doctrine, or was unlucky. But because one day on winter break, I just happened to be in the library. That I _happened _to walk down that particular aisle. That I _happened _to stop by that particular shelf and that I happened to pick up that particular book." He sighed. "It's a lousy reason, of course, and not the only one, but I couldn't stand the idea that some book by chance scared me out of my future, whatever it might be."

Walker stared at him and was about to speak, only to be cut off.

"Yes, I know, it was only a book. Of course, in the end of the day, the book might have won."

"I'm sorry?"

"I spent two years as an officer cadet. With my scores, I could have been an active pilot in the Alliance Air Force, but I wasn't good enough to be reserve and support in the Specials. If it wasn't for 'Daybreak', I might never have become a full pilot officer at all, and permanently put in a support role." He gave a cynical, almost-barking laugh and put his hands together. "Like I _was _during all of 'Citadel'."

He shook his head. "God, how I hate determinism," he muttered before adding, "…and the dark fantasy genre."

Dac spun about and sat, slumped, on the edge of the bed when he felt a touch on his back. Walker was smiling over him, a hand on his shoulder, sad but sympathetic. "You could still do great things."

He feigned a laugh. "Thank you."

"For what?'

"Having the decency not to lie to me. That I _had _done great things, when I obviously haven't."

Walker stopped smiling, but kept his hand on his shoulder.

"You still finished a junior officer cadetship at the Lake Victoria Academy. That's not…something people can _just _do," he repeated. "People don't just walk in off streets in Kampala and decide they're going to become mobile suit pilots. You're in the company of people like Zechs Merquise and Lucrezia Noin."

Dac nodded. "I guess that's true," he admitted, clearly appreciating the compliment.

"Don't ever forget that, David. You, your sister, we all accomplished something great just by getting here," he insisted.

Dac sighed, though he was smiling now. "And here we are. On the edge of a civil war, staring into the abyss. I wonder what _great things _I'll do amid that."

"No one wants to die, David."

He sighed deeply. "Tell that to the maniacs in the First Recon Battalion."

Both men literally jumped when the door to Walker's room slammed open and Kanna appeared, chest heaving and dragging an exhausted Mazuri behind her. "Hey guys," she said finally between breaths.

"Kanna! Ajay! What happened?" Walker asked, rushing up to Kanna and taking a limp Mazuri from her shoulder and onto his with some effort.

"Don't worry, he's fine…we were literally in the next building twenty second ago, apparently he hadn't limbered up."

"Cardio's important," Dac added as Walker hobbled Mazuri to his bed and set him down. The flight officer finally raised his left hand with his thumb extended, as if to offer assurance. Kanna put a hand on her hip and arched her back momentarily as her breath gradually returned to normal.

Walker snuck a glance at his wristwatch and sighed. "You're late, by the way."

She nodded a few times before snatching a bottle of water from the counter near the door, yanking off the cap and emptying it in one long gulp before tossing it away. "Winthrop wasn't there. We found Squadron Commander Sun, he was with Flight Lieutenant Khanum. They had a working radio, different one than before, but still worked." She took another deep breath. "Kim's in a cell, along with pretty much any other officer caught outside. But that's only the start—shooting's started."

"In Brussels?"

She shook her head. "No. At Chièvres. Pretty sure Treize's bodyguard pouring into Brussels was just a distraction, of course the Sixtieth Division can't really just let an entire _armed_ regiment pour into the capital of Belgium in troop trucks and motorcycles."

"And that's the Recon Battalion's feint," Walker mumbled.

"_Hai_! And it's just the start—apparently, the Sixtieth Division's started bringing in SPAA vehicles, Eurasian ones," she explained, her violet eyes growing very wide.

"You're kidding," Dac said.

"She's not," Mazuri muttered, still lying down. "We heard them moving in heavy mechanized infantry stuff, infantry fighting vehicles, personnel carriers. No tanks, yet."

"What the hell could the First Recon Battalion be doing that they'd _need _to bring in vehicle support?" Dac asked, glancing back at Walker before recoiling in surprise. A lot of the color had drained from his face, his jaw hanging slightly open.

"Sir…"

"They've taken the Aries mobile suits left at Chièvres AFB. The First Recon Battalion's not _mutinying_, they're starting a _war _against the Romefeller Foundation and the rest of OZ," he whispered softly.

"Holy God. It's another revolution," Dac muttered.

"It's another coup d'état," Mazuri corrected him.

"And they've got Treize's bodyguards helping them," Kanna added.

There was a few painful, awkward moments of silence. Kanna glanced around her three comrades, each with varying degrees of dread visible on their face. "Well?"

Walker hid his clenched jaw behind his right hand. "We…we have to get out of here."

"No shit," Mazuri muttered.

"What about the MP_s_?"

"No, I mean we have to get out of Belgium_. _We're down the road from the European center of operations for the Romefeller Foundation _and _their board of governors. The fact that there aren't a dozen divisions rolling across every highway in the country is because no one's supposed to be unreasonable enough to actually _try _what's about to happen."

Dac broke the heavy silence this time. "Fine, we're all thinking it, so I'll go ahead and say it: thanks, First Recon Battalion. You've killed us all."

"I wasn't thinking that," Kanna fired back.

"No they_ haven't_," Walker growled. "Not yet. All of you know how I feel about the colonel, and I'm not going to hide that fact, but sitting in this barracks with an entire division of officers who have already been declared _sympathetic _to the enemy, while a shooting war breaks out down the road seems like a _very _bad idea."

"Well, we're just following orders, right?" Dac asked. "We're doing what they told us to."

"Except for all those times we snuck out," Mazuri pointed out.

"You know what I mean!" he shouted.

"They've done the calculus. That's how the bureaucracy plans for contingencies. For all we know, they really _do _appreciate us for having beaten the Alliance, but they did the math and it told them that if _something _happened at a _certain _time, we, as a group, would behave in a _certain _manner. Which is the most math can tell you about any sort of human behavior," Walker explained, sounding increasingly manic and even disoriented as he continued.

"In this case, that if Treize Khushrenada resigned, we—the troops, the division as a whole—wouldn't take it well."

"And the Recon Battalion decided to take over a whole airfield for God knows what reason."

Walker turned, his eyes as wide as Kanna's. "I don't want to find out. We're getting out of here, all of us." He spun around once, surveying his room before running to the nearby closet and throwing out his luggage. The other three stared at him as he began throwing in the few possessions he still had into the traveling bag, mostly notebooks and a few sets of clothes. He turned and stared at them. "Should we vote on it democratically?" he asked.

"I vote in favor," Kanna said immediately.

"Me too," Mazuri added reluctantly.

"Wait, hold on—so, where do we go? I mean, we're not going to the _airfield, _right? So are we just going to _drive_ out of Belgium?"

"Why not? We don't have any countermanding orders, except for the ones they knew we'd break, do we?" Walker asked, his tone now clearly frantic. "So we leave danger for the Netherlands. Or Germany. Or wherever, so long as it's not _here_ or Luxembourg. And when the new military hierarchy is established, we'll take or orders then. Or not. Or whatever, the point is we _won't be here_," he finished, shouting.

He stared at the three of them agitatedly. "Well, don't you have packing to do?" he barked, immediately chasing all three out of his room.

**VII**

The overall atmosphere north of Chièvres Airbase had the feeling over a failed demilitarized zone or a contentious border checkpoint between rival nations—from there, it was assumed by both sides, it would escalate to an actual combat zone.

For its part, the 60th George Cross Division had treaded carefully, bringing up self-propelled anti-aircraft vehicles to their main position north of the town itself, then running a perimeter down the length of the Chaussée de Mons two-thirds of the way to the town of Lens.

"Our two best avenues of insertion are through the town, by way of the Rue de la Chapelle, or cross Chaussée de Mons past the airbase barracks, near the primary runway," an Earth Army captain, the North American executive officer to the division commander, explained while gesturing at a map illuminated in a field tent.

"Isn't that where elements of the Third Paracommando encountered fire from the mutineers?" the division commander, a tall Walloon who'd traded his daily uniform for dark green combat fatigues, asked.

"Yes sir—only light fire from small arms and one light machinegun."

"Second and Third Paracommando are ready, sir," a Paracommando lieutenant announced, in a yellow-brown-green camouflage pattern offset by a blood-red beret that would have to be discarded in combat.

"And those mobile suits?"

"We're not certain that the mutineers will use them, but if they do, we can target them with our 5K22 anti-aircraft vehicles or our AMGM if they remain on the ground," the captain explained.

"They're in position on the north perimeter?"

"Yes, sir. Here, here, and here," he said, gesturing to three points on the map. "We're barely six-hundred meters from them, well beneath their optimal range we should be able to fire before they can even begin targeting us from the ground level or go airborne."

The division commander glanced out the tent's open door to the south—near where the secondary and main runways crossed, he could see a number of mobile suits, their yellow camera eyes glowing in the night. "Make sure to target the mobile suits first and only relent until they're confirmed crippled. Those cockpits should protect the pilots in any case, and naturally the Western European district will want plenty of live mutineers for the investigation."

"Understood, sir."

"Is the tower still unpowered?"

"As far as we can tell, yes sir."

"Good, no one fires on it until I give the order. Also, I want a company of men to cover our flank, anything from the city itself will…" he ordered being cut off by an explosion. Several bursts of fire cut through the cloudy overcast above, and the defensive positions hastily constructed around the SPAA vehicles exploded when struck by precisely-aimed ninety-millimeter HEAM ammunition. No sooner had they spotted the explosions to their north did the mobile suits at Chièvres begin their own barrage of less-effective ground fire. The division's troops responded in kind, joined by spotlights that bathed the darkened airfield in streaks of light.

Flight Officer Syed Khan checked her headset, quickly scanned the horizon on her displays, then squeezed the trigger, sending a cluster of air-ground missiles into a grass-covered knoll she suspected housed a number of AMGM. The entire area vanished in an explosion. "Damocles 2-1 to all callsigns, check your datalink! Only target the defensive lines as sent to us by Damocles 1, I repeat, do not fire on any retreating units! And will someone shoot those damn spotlights?"

"_Acknowledged, Damocles 2-1!_"

"Okay, _now _this is like a war," she muttered with a grimace as the five Aries turned the whole enemy perimeter north of them into scorched earth and smoking craters. Three pairs of infantry fighting vehicles had responded with their own autocannons, dimmer but still bright bursts of flashing light—the mobile suit to her right turned and fired a long burst from its chain gun, punching them full of holes and liquidating any troops or vehicle crews inside. It was one of the more accurate shots from the mobile suits at Chièvres, where even their directed fire generally failed to meet its mark.

"_Are we clear_?"

"On second, Damocles 2-4. Damocles 2-1 to Emi, target the clearing between buildings at fifty-thirty-five-twenty-five at three-forty-nine-eight, there's artillery there we can't hit from the ground."

"_Acknowledged, firing for effect._"

Along the Grand'Rue was the Caserne Daurmerie, a collection of buildings that once housed an ancient United States Army Garrison but had been hastily occupied by the Sixtieth Division. Near the main complex of orange-roofed buildings, two self-propelled howitzers were returning firing at the airfield until a burst of fire from above filled them and the nearby monument aircraft, a preserved Gloster Meteor dubbed EG-18, with gaping ninety-millimeter holes. The howitzer's ammunition exploded, and everything vanished in a fireball.

"_Enemy forces are in full retreat to the north and east, ceasing fire._"

"_Acknowledged. ATC, clear the carriers for landing_."

In the darkened top floor of the Chièvres Tower, an airbase ordnance chief wearing a headset gestured at his assistant, who set down his flashlight and immediately flipped a bank of switches on one of the console, bringing the surrounding consoles and monitor back to life, before donning a headset himself.

"This is Chièvres Tower to aircraft on north approach, do you read…"

By the time Flight Officer Syed Khan was able to exit her newly-acquired mobile suit, the two Antonov airlifters had completed a hasty landing in record time, with ground crew assisted by the large men from the Fusiliers-Grenadiers Regiment who could at least help with the heavy lifting. Their rear cargo ramps were already lowered when the sixth Aries mobile suit, raked by light fire by otherwise undamaged, touched down near the main hangar.

Approaching the illuminated loading area, Syed Khan adjusted the combat armor vested she'd taken earlier, pulling at the straps repeatedly and she ran up to the Aries. Ogasawara Emi, clad in a black crop top and her warpaint slightly smeared, descended on a tether.

"Diwali came early this year," she joked earnestly, trying to sound cheerful.

"In that case Indira, consider this gift for the festival of lights from Terrestrial Forces," Emi jibbed back, dropping the last two meters and landing within arm's reach.

"Well, what did you bring me then?"

Chièvres remained under-illuminated by any sort of military working standard, but the grenadiers managed to obtain a number of standing torchlights which they aimed up into the cavernous cargo compartments, their contents finally visible, if not clearly.

"A dozen OZ-12AMS 'Taurus' airborne mobile suits, including two commander variants, four flights worth and their associated beam cannons and rifles," Emi announced with a sort of academic disinterest.

"According to the manifests, these were going to _your_ unit, to be based out of the headquarters for the North Atlantic Air Army," Corporal Carver announced from the hood of a 4WD car, helmet in one hand and thick military folder in the other.

"So technically we didn't do anything wrong," Emi joked humorlessly.

Indira wasn't listening, and instead clasped her hands together and stared at the short enlisted woman with twinkling eyes. "Oh my god, aren't you the most _adorable_ little trooper I've ever seen!" she cried before trotting right up to Carver and pinching one of her surprisingly-elastic cheeks. Carver winced in pain and jerked her head, but otherwise didn't respond. "She is just too cute for words," Indira declared.

"Please stop doing that, ma'am," Carver said, her cheek still pulled out.

Indira ignored her. "These machines were packed for transit, not aerial deployment. Otherwise, you could probably take over all of Brussels for at least a few hours with twelve Taurii."

Emi nodded. "We'll probably need someone from First Recon's supply or transport companies," she admitted. "Maybe even battalion headquarters."

Carver finally broke free from Indira's pinching, while the pilot gave Emi a knowing look. "Really, Emi?"

"In the meantime, we've got the loading crew and engineers from either aircraft."

Indira's indicting stare was only growing more judgmental. "Really? A dozen loading crew and two flight engineers from the Sixth Transportation Battalion? How long do really think they can keep twelve Taurus mobile suits working? Even outside of combat conditions?"

Emi cocked her head and touched the back of her neck under her long hair. Carver stopped rubbing her cheeks and spoke up. "Ma'am, I think I should add that none of them seemed particularly reliable from what I saw of them."

Relenting, Emi heaved a sigh and put her hand to her forehead. "Fine. We'll go get some _real _engineers, including _him. _Is that what you wanted to hear? Did Nabiki put you up to this?"

Indira gave a cocky shrug, further annoying Emi, who unslung her machine pistol and jammed it into Indira's chest. "You two find Walker. He's probably still in Leopoldsburg, pulling his hair out. That's an order."

Looking briefly like she regretted her action, Indira slung the weapon over her shoulder awkwardly and nodded. "I'll get Nabiki."

Emi scoffed. "You better hurry up," she called back. "We're not occupying Chièvres Airbase, after all."

**VIII**

"You know, I hate being the one who says it but someone ought to—what if we just surrendered to the MP_s_?"

The three looked at Dac, who looked impressively calm when he posed the question. They were standing in the common area on the ground floor of the barracks, luggage in their hands and uniforms either buttoned or, in Kanna's case, tied around her waist.

"I mean, we haven't really done anything _that _wrong yet. I'm pretty sure leaving our posts, if not desertion, is _considered _wrong. What if we just walked over to the MP_s_?"

"Damn it, Dac, do you really think the Foundation would do all this just so that we could go to the military police, apologize sincerely, and that'd be the end of it?" Mazuri barked angrily. "What kind of stupid…"

"If we do that, we should do it together," Walker cut him off.

They both looked at him. Dac looked taken aback, and immediately he felt the need to elaborate."Dac's not crazy—I mean, just because Kim or Sun or Winthrop are all sick of this political-divorce-turned-grandstanding, that doesn't mean we're obligated to respond similarly. These are not orders from above," he told them, as calmly as he could manage.

"As a unit, we decided that waiting in the barracks, as though this were the worst leave granted in the history of warfare because, as military officers, we repudiate indecision. But we could acknowledge these extenuating circumstances as what they are and offer ourselves…" he said, before catching himself. "…_appeal _to the actors on the stage."

He permitting a second's thought about the completed plastic model sitting on his desk a few floors above. "But we do it as a unit, as a flight, as a team."

He sat down on the top of the nearby couch, traveling kit and luggage over his shoulder and under his arm, resisting the urge to check his wristwatch.

"I'm not giving up," Kanna announced abruptly. "I'm sorry, but I'm not. I've always hate giving up, I can't stand it. I don't agree with the Foundation, but even if I did, that's not the whole point. If they want to put me out of a job, fine, I mean, it's not like none of us saw this coming."

Out of the corner of his eye, Walker glanced at Dac and Mazuri, trying to judge their surprise at the statement. It wasn't as overt as he would have thought.

"But I _really _hate giving up. When I got into the Specials, I decided stubbornness was a _good _quality," she said, pressing her right hand against her head.

Walker nodded mildly in agreement and glanced at the other two. To his credit, Dac didn't looked embarrassed, just thoughtful.

"Democracy's not perfect, naturally. But as the party vanguard, it's essentially the bare minimum of whatever we can do," he explained with a little rhetorical flourish added.

"God, what it is with you and history, sir?" Ajay asked in feigned exasperation.

He rose to his feet and smiled. "I've never had to rule a society but I found, as a commissioned officer in wartime, a Marxist revolutionary understanding of organization and internal discipline to be invaluable," he admitted.

"Well, if we're all done patting ourselves our back for our social consciousness, let me paraphrase Lenin," Ajay announced with biting impatience. "_What is to be done?_"

"That I think I can answer," Walker said, walking to a nearby window and glancing through the blinds. "There's a vehicle motor pool behind the last building, four-wheel-drive, unused troop trucks, and a military post vehicle. I'm sure it's loaded with Earth Forces magazines, undeliverable mail or even those new dark blue uniforms, something hard to miss."

His three subordinates stared at him.

"It has plates out of Dusseldorf, Valley—the Ruhr Valley No. 4 Factory," he emphasized.

Kanna gave Mazuri a rousing slap against the back. "Damn, that's our _Taichō_! Planning to make the impossible possible," she laughed.

"So we just drive across the border, away from Brussels, in a post truck?" Mazuri asked in disbelief. "Like we have an urgent delivery of undeliverable mail to the Fourth Mobile Suit Factory?"

"This could work," Dac interjected. "I mean, when was the last time you saw anyone barred from making a delivery? It's not like you can drive a _bomb _into factory, there isn't a bomb in existence that can't be detected by military spectrometers. People are just lumps of water and carbon."

"And they don't trigger alarms typically," Mazuri muttered, still unconvinced.

"I saw that motor pool earlier—there's basically the same concentration of military police around it too," Kanna added.

"I'm still open to any other suggestions," Walker added.

A shorter silence. "All things remaining the same," Mazuri confessed, "I'd rather be arrested in Dusseldorf than Brussels."

"And that's your party consensus," Kanna announced. "So we have a plan."

"Of sorts. It's not my best work," he explained, pulling off his tailcoat. "But on short notice it's passable."

Taking their cue, the three used what articles had been left behind in the common area—primarily Earth Army field jackets and supply company caps—to disguise themselves as anything except Space Mobile Suit Troops. The effect came most naturally to Kanna, who found it easy to carry herself as something besides a pilot, but after a few minutes Dac and Mazuri had made themselves passable as they could manage. It was Walker, with his tailcoat open and underneath a field jacket, who seemed most out of place, despite a past in the Engineering Corps.

"Well, it'll have to work," Walker muttered, peeking through the window blinds again. "It's not like they can't just bring up our facial data anyway."

"I'd kill for an underarm holster," Dac muttered Mazuri. "My dad still crosses his arms when he talks, from his days as a Dominion agent," he reflected, gesturing with his arms—left crossed over right, in a manner of grabbing a holstered sidearm under his coat with his right.

"I'd settle for a sidearm," Mazuri replied.

"No shooting!" Kanna hissed. "Don't you get it? We start shooting them, and you think they're gonna' care about taking us unharmed?"

"It'll be clear in thirty seconds. When we're outside, stay in the shadows, single file, against the buildings. No standing out in the open. Don't cast shadows. A few seconds of footsteps is can be less damaging than a long, continuous shadow."

"Hey, wait, what about your motorcycle?" Dac asked.

"Oh, who gives a damn about it? Let the piece of trash sit there," Walker snapped back, shutting him up.

The four pressed themselves against the wall by the door. "A journey of a leagues begins with a first step," Kanna mumbled.

"Japanese proverb?" Walker asked.

"No. Lao Tze."

With an agreeing nod, Walker tore his stare from between the blinds and gently pulled the door opened. The military base at Leopoldsburg had normal evening lighting—nonetheless, teams of two and four MP_s _took slow, relaxed patrols with flashlights along the roadways and along the outermost perimeter. The motor pool was three hundred meters away, and did not appear under particularly high surveillance.

Taking a deep breath, Walker exited first, followed by Kanna. They pressed themselves against the brick wall of the barracks hall just as they had from the other side.

"Remember when I said when we first met," Walker whispered. "No glory hunting. Don't get killed."

They kept in a slow moving line, single file, scrambling underneath the ornate lamps that hung from the brickwork. They stopped when a pair of MP_s _came around the corner, waited until they were sufficiently far away, then ran across the roadway between the halls. But in the time it took to repeat the process past the remaining two residence halls to the motor pool at the end. As Kanna recounted, the vehicle pool was actually empty of guards, though a half-dozen MPs with flashlights were visibly walking on patrol on either side of it.

"It's actually empty," Mazuri whispered in disbelief.

_This seems too easy. But it's too late now_. Walker said nothing but pointed at the rectangular truck marked as property of the Terrestrial Forces Post Office. Falling to the gravel, the four lingered just outside the motor pool, behind a waist-high brick just passed the barracks, waiting for a military policeman to pass on his patrol.

With the MP departing, Walker tapped Kanna in the stomach and shook Mazuri's shoulder, getting their attention. "The truck'll be unlocked. Whoever's in first, turn the ignition and hit the accelerator, and don't stop for anything," he whispered.

Kanna nodded and began counting down with her fingers—four, three, two—and all four scrambled back up to their feet and over the wall. As he vaulted over it, Walker felt a sharp pain in his lower back and despite himself cried out, almost tripping in his boots. Not very loudly, but enough that a military policeman on the edge turned and aimed his flashlight in the direction of the nearest residence building.

"_I__s er iemand?_" he called out nervously. The other MP_s _heard him and paused in their steps.

Walker froze, barely four meters from the truck on the edge of the motor pool, aware of the mistake he'd made. He looked at the other three, still in the relative darkness of the truck's shadow in the dim light, clenched his jaw as he unmistakably mouthed a single word.

_Oh no, he's going to do it_, Kanna thought.

When the light shone close to him, he leaped out and ran for it, away from the motor pool and back to the line of barracks halls. The MP_s _exchanged confused shouts in Dutch, and one ran up to the center torchlight mast and flipped the switch just as Kanna, Dac and Mazuri ducked underneath the nearby truck. Even with the entire motor pool lit up from there, they couldn't see much besides the legs of the military police as they took off after Walker.

Lying on her chest, Kanna looked at the two to her right. "You know, amid all that panic and hysterical justification back there—I wonder if he always knew this'd happen. That we'd all be separated like this," she whispered.

"Does that make all that bullshit about doing this as a unit better or worse?" Mazuri wondered, the usual conceit missing from his voice.

Walker kept running, impressed by his own pace even when he'd neglected to drop his luggage, as a pair of enlisted men chased after him in their white helmets and belts. But after passing the residence halls he could tell he was running out of steam and came to a stumbling halt within sight of the base perimeter, a tall chain-link fence he was under no delusions he could scale.

The two MP_s _came to a stop just under ten meters away, similarly out of breath. In the bright light, he was surprised to see how young they were, two or three years younger than him and likely still cadets in training.

The one who recovered his breath earlier touched the radio on his shoulder. "Company Headquarters, this is Unit Eight. We've found Flight Lieutenant Walker." He looked up. "You are Flight Lieutenant Walker, correct sir?" he gasped.

Walker nodded, still out of breath, and pressed his a hand against his back, arching it. With everything that'd happened, he'd missed his dosage of tramadol.

"I repeat, we've located Flight Lieutenant Walker."

"Sir, would you mind coming with us?" the other asked while his comrade waited for a response.

Walker nodded meekly but froze upon hearing the unmistakable putter of a petrol engine. In a moment of optimism, he thought it might be the others taking advantage of his meager distraction and making their escape by truck, but quickly recognized the high-pitched putter as characteristic of a much smaller single cylinder engine.

The MP_s _heard it too, and looked behind them in time to be blinded by a headlight shone directly at them, cursing in Dutch. Walker was blinded, grasping for goggles as the sound grew louder, even deafening, when a motorcycle buzzed between the two and up to him.

"Get in!" a muffled voice commanded, and he felt someone grabbing him by his arm and dragging him over the rear of the seat. While the two MP_s _swore and narrowly avoided being struck by themselves, the three pilots who'd remained in the now-illuminated motor pool had crawled out from their hiding spot and piled up inside the post truck which, while unlocked, was failing to come to a start. As they struggled with it, another 4WD car pulled up to the gate and stopped, its five military police occupants quickly disembarking and watching something just out of eyeshot struggle with a vehicle that had been abandoned there for a reason.

Resisting the urge to helpfully shout that the truck was out of service, the noncommissioned officer taking the lead tapped his radio. "Unit Four to Company Headquarters, securing motor pool. Located three officers, investigating."

He heard a tinny voice respond back quickly. "_Affirmative Unit Four. Reporting three more to be detained: Kaneshiro, Flight Officer, large South Asian woman with red hair. Mazuri, Flight Officer, East African man with black hair and eyeglasses. Bishop, North American Caucasian man with blond hair. Special care is to be taken to avoid any injury them._"

The sergeant felt his handset, keeping his eyes forward, towards the truck. "This is Unit Four, I think I see all three, in vicinity of the nonworking truck in the vehicle pool. Moving to detain," he whispered before gesturing at them with a tilt of his head. The four military police cadets followed closely behind them, armed with batons. Only their NCO had a visible white holster.

"Here come more gendarmes," Mazuri muttered, sitting between Dac and Kanna in the front seat.

"Shit," Dac added, still trying to turn over the engine.

Kanna bit down on her lip for a second before opening the door. "I'll deal with them. Wait for my signal, then run for it. Clear?"

"Kanna, I know you're badass and all, but I don't think splitting again up is such a great idea," Mazuri began, before punching Dac in the arm as he continued struggling with the ignition.

"Shut up Ajay," she hissed as the sergeant approached. "You'll pick me up," she commanded quietly before shutting the door after her. As relaxed as she could manage, she took a few leisurely steps along the vehicle pool gravel, pulling off the surplus cap and coat she'd been wearing.

"Sirs, ma'am. If you'd please come with us, we'd like to take you to station until we can put you back in contact with the rest of your division. You'll be safer with us until then."

"Are we under arrest?" Dac shouted from the cabin of the truck.

The sergeant managed to keep calm as he looked past Kanna. "No sir."

"Then I think we'll decline!" he shouted, inching behind Mazuri in his seat, who put a hand over his face. Kanna said nothing, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

The sergeant looked at the two before advancing with small, nonthreatening steps. The four boys that had arrived with him followed behind like nervous ducklings. "Sirs, ma'am, I'm afraid we have to insist. There's been a state of emergency declared, all officers and troops have been recalled to their barracks…"

"I don't buy it Kanna," Mazuri shouted unnecessarily.

"Just hold on…" Kanna whispered through her teeth, standing with her legs apart and her right hand on her hip.

The sergeant stared back at her and slowly drew his baton from his belt. "Ma'am, for the last time, I…"

Once he was within a meter of her, Kanna lunched forward on one foot, grabbed him by the wrist and then by the arm, and threw him swiftly over her shoulder. Mazuri and Dac winced as he was slammed onto the ground and Kanna yanked his baton away and turned to the four remaining MP_s_, who looked particularly taken aback.

"Ugghh…" the sergeant writhed between deep breaths, the breath knocked out of him.

"That's the signal you morons," Kanna hissed, a tense, lock-jawed smile on her face. Mazuri popped open the door and literally toppled out of the truck cabin, though recovered admirably and was back on his feet before he reached down and took the sergeant's radio. One of the MP_s _watched both of them circle around them before a piercing whistle from Kanna regained his attention. Kanna twirled the baton in her right hand by its lanyard for a further few seconds before snapping her wrist and bracing it against the length of her forearm, eyes trained on the other four, her posture relaxing slightly.

"Oh _great_, she has a tonfa now," one of the cadets announced loudly from the back, recognition and worry in his voice before he touched his radio. "This is Unit Four, our sergeant is injured, requesting backup!" he stated as calmly and mechanically as he could manage.

"Come on, boys, are we gonna' do this?" she asked, flicking her nose with her left thumb. Dac and Mazuri scampered at a distance, towards the 4WD car.

"Get her you _idiots_!" the sergeant shouted as he rolled himself over and tried to rise to his feet, and the cadets reluctantly but obediently drew their batons before circling their NCO and trying to surround Kanna. Looking strangely at ease, she tapped her own baton against her elbow twice and watched the sergeant go for his holster. A cadet swung with his baton—she caught it, snapping the lanyard off his wrist and threw him at the sergeant, whom he landed on with a loud groan, knocking the wind out of him once more.

Even with Kanna in her element, it was obvious what Dac and Mazuri were attempting—another MP who barely escaped her after having his baton flung away spotted and immediately leapt for Dac, who managed to get an opportune bash against him with his luggage before Mazuri opportunistically kicked him in the shin. He stumbled backwards just enough for Kanna to grab him by the collar and throw him into his comrade.

Dac got into their 4WD first, taking the wheel. "Kanna, Kanna's there's no key in the ignition!" Normal procedure was to store vehicles with the necessary materiel to operate them, including fuel and things like coded or mechanical keys, but unsurprising, this 4WD was missing it. "Kanna!"

Two increasingly-battered cadets had jumped her at the same time, taking her by the waist. She managed to bring her elbow down on the first ones back but the second one behind her was clasping her neck.

"Kanna!"

"All right, I heard you damn it!" she shouted. She kicked another advancing MP, turned in the opposite direction of the sergeant and fell backwards, squashing the smaller cadet throttling her in the process. He immediately released her and rolling over, she gave the sergeant a precautionary elbow in the face, after which she ripped the key from his white belt and tossed it at Dac's raised, waiting hand. Another cadet lunged for her and she dodged just as she heard the 4WD's engine come to life, snapped to her feet and narrowly avoided the baton swing of the MP she'd struck in the back earlier. He struck again quickly, and she managed to block it with her left baton.

Putting his foot down, Dac nearly hit another MP, who tumbled out of the way of the 4WD as it stopped in front of Kanna before he struck the horn four times. Getting the picture, Kanna ducked underneath a high swing from an MP, parrying another before kneeing him in the stomach. The second attacker slipped and lost his footing, giving Kanna her opportunity: she toppled over into the back seat of the 4WD before Dac put it in reverse, spun out of the vehicle pool and onto the main road, leaving a cloud of dust and gravel behind him.

Lying on her back and breathing deeply, Kanna didn't say anything.

"You looked like you were enjoying yourself," Dac admonished her angrily.

She gave a tired laugh in response. "Usually I can tire them out. They weren't tiring out."

"That's the difference between gendarmes and pilots," Mazuri shouted, taking off the useless jacket he wore over his uniform and throwing it out of the car. "Now what?"

Kanna was still laughing, but her voice and an edge. "What do you think?"

Dac slammed down on the breaks, Kanna nearly rolling out of the seat.

"So we're going back?"

"No, you idiot!" Mazuri shouted, backhanding him. "We're going on N73 and across the border!"

"Stop hitting me!" Dac shouted back, shoving Mazuri into his seat with both arms. The older officer seemed surprise and didn't respond after a soft grunt in pain, and Dac looked over his shoulder. "Kanna, we have to go back, right? Maybe we can still grab him?"

"Well, Kanna?" Mazuri asked, adjusting his glasses. Kanna remained lying across the backseat, muscular arms slung over the seats, not giving a response.

**IX**

When the Luxembourg Press Office announced a midnight conference at the Military Affairs Department, the building itself was almost entirely empty. Andrews wasn't convinced anyone would show up, nonetheless, he showered, shaved, changed into a new uniform and tried and failed to get a little sleep as midnight came. To his annoyance, he was proven wrong, and there was standing room only in the press room when he met his Pakistani adjutant behind the stage.

"God, don't any of these people have lives?" he demanded quietly. "We're in the armed forces, we _have _to be here. What's they're excuse?"

His younger adjutant grimaced. "I suppose they want a good story, sir. Do you still want the whole speech?"

"No, cut everything but the last paragraph," he mumbled angrily. He'd been prepared to address an empty room, not a packed one. "Tomorrow I might not have a boss, but tonight, they're still not my bosses."

"Yes sir," he said, using a tablet computer to set the teleprompter.

He gave a sigh and straightened his tailcoat. "Sometimes I wish I was back in Ulster, you know that?"

He nodded. "Don't we all sir?"

"Karachi, wasn't it?"

"No, I meant Ulster sir," he replied, not missing a beat. Andrews stared at him a few seconds longer before giving a much-needed laugh and his adjutant guided him towards the stage. By the time he was behind the podium he still had a few traces of a smile on his face.

"Good evening, I'm sorry so many of you had to come out this late," he began with rehearsed rigidity. "As you're apparently aware, His Excellency Treize Khushrenada has not yet returned to Luxembourg City. I will address some of the most obvious issues: there has been no appointment of a new commander-in-chief of the Order of the Zodiac. The military is still under the overall leadership of the Supreme Military Council—this is their building, after all—even if currently there is currently no commander-in-chief for overall forces. There has been any reported change in the commander-in-chief of OZ Space Forces."

One of the reporters Andrews recognized in the crowd raised his hand and he called on him.

"So, you're confirming Treize Khushrenada has resigned as head of OZ?"

Andrews sighed. This was the trouble with discarding most of his pre-written speech, and there was no backing out of it now. "I've been told that Colonel Khushrenada has resigned as the Supreme Military Council's appointed commander-in-chief. Anything further than that concerning His Excellency I won't be speculating on."

A few blocks away across Chilias Catalonia Avenue, on the northeast edge of the city, almost every floor of the Military Commissariat had been cleared out, two helicopters rising from landing platforms that had once housed opulent glass pyramids. Parsons watched the long, window-lined wings of the building darken behind him one by one, before turning back to the Sikorsky military helicopter that had set down on the west courtyard.

"And that's everything," Officer Cadet Perez announced, carrying a labeled box under arms and a briefcase in his right hand. "I'm gonna' miss Luxembourg."

Next to him, Officer Cadet Parker nodded in agreement. "Me too. Where do you think they'll move us?"

"Whitehall, probably. Maybe Kensington," Parsons mumbled softly.

"Oh, Kensington's nice," Perez pointed out.

"Well, Whitehall's hardly Atlanta either," Parker responded.

"I can't believe the Chasseurs Regiment hasn't already surrounded the building. Have either of you seen Eva?" Parsons asked, ignoring them.

The two were silent. "I…think Major Cebotari got into an earlier helicopter. Her office was empty, last I checked," Perez said finally.

"I think so too."

Parsons stared at either of them, then walked up to Parker and dropped another box on top of his before turning back and running into the building. "Wait here."

"E.P., I mean, Lieutenant Parsons, I think…"

"No one cares, Perez!" Parsons shouted back before running back to the entrance. The rest of the building was darkened to the point of making navigation difficult, but after running a stairwell he found at least one corner office still had power. As he suspected, it was the office he was looking for.

"How is it your breaker isn't flipped yet? Of course, your fish," Parsons thought aloud. Major Cebotari was standing behind desk at the far end of the room, the flickering glow of the lone monitor display at her workstation illuminating the two rows of uniform buttons on her chest.

Putting a hand on his hip, he waited for a response. When it didn't come, leaving him standing in the doorway, he sighed and gestured at the desk. "What is that, Eva?"

She looked up at him briefly. "My digital tablet," she told him in her usual deep, measured tone.

He forced a smile. "_Why_ is it connected to your workstation?"

"Edward…I really don't have time to explain how computers work to you," she told him, slow and drawn-out.

More angry smiling. "The Fusiliers-Chasseurs Regiment'll be here in minutes. The last helicopter's about to leave, shouldn't you be on it?"

Eva didn't respond immediately; he didn't think he'd get an answer at all and was about to taunt her when she did speak. "I've been thinking about that, E.P., and I've decided I'm not joining you in London."

He titled his head sharply, eyes wide, still smiling. "I'm sorry? You're ignoring orders?"

Her fingers danced over the clicking keyboard for a few seconds as the glow of the screen changed. "I checked my mail, I'm wasn't very impressed by Undersecretary General's choice of words."

"I…don't think it matters what you think of her choice of words, in fact, I'm quite certain it doesn't. You have orders from the civilian authority above the Military Commissariat, this isn't any different than if Treize Khushrenada personally ordered us to move to London," he insisted, his voice rising.

Eva looked up at him, ill-disposed red eyes illuminated by the screen. "And what can you do to stop me?"

There were a few things: he could walk up to Eva's desk and rip the cables out of the visible portion of the computer processor. He could leave the room, find the nearby service panel and flip the breakers to her office, aquarium fish be damned. He could even attempt to access her computer and abort all ongoing activities, along with erasing whatever had been stored on that small tablet.

Parsons did none of those things, opening the leather holster on his belt—unlike the cadets, he carried one—pulling out his sidearm and aiming at in her direction. The red eyes regarded him and Eva stifled a laugh before looking back at her station.

He tightened his grip. "What is it that they say? Political power comes from the barrel of a gun?"

Once again, Eva took her time responding, the keyboard clicking a few more times. "If you paid attention in school, you'd remember the rest of Mao's statement—that the Party commands the gun, and allowing the gun to command the Party is its undoing. Somewhat ironic given our current situation," she told him in a calm, breathy, even academic tone.

Parsons almost fell for the bait, barely catching himself snidely retorting about Eva's understanding of irony, before he clenched his teeth to stop. "You're coming with us, Eva," he asked, slowly pacing along the walls of the office until he was nearly at Eva's side. As he thought, Eva wasn't wearing her own holster, but that didn't mean she didn't have some sort of concealed weapon.

"Or what, you'll shoot the computer?" Eva asked, not looking away from the monitor. From his new angle, he could see the screen changing at a more rapid pace, and her hands spent more time on the keyboard then before.

"If necessary, yes. It's just furniture."

"Then we're in agreement. Then do it and bill the Foundation," Eva said. More rapid clicking.

He forced a smile again. "The Foundation, the Foundation. Weren't you the one who vetted Treize Khushrenada at their behest? Isn't that how you got your start?"

"I guess you could say I failed in my duties then," she said without a hint of humor.

"That was years ago. If anyone's to blame, it's those old men for using him in the first place. What I don't understand is why you still seem to care _now_."

When Eva didn't answer, he flipped the safety off with his right thumb. "So who do I owe an explanation to? You or the Romefeller Foundation?"

"Well, I am the one with the gun," he reminded her.

She looked up again, this time with an obviously unfriendly smile. "Then explain this to me—do you really think the Foundation will welcome a grinning caballer like yourself?"

"After what you've done, they might."

She put one hand on her hip, the other rapidly tapping keys. "Don't you remember anything, Parsons? You arbitrarily obliterated one of their most trusted political officers and one of their most dependable squadrons just to incriminate Zechs Merquise further, because you wanted to see if it could be done. How do you think they'll take that?"

Eva started grinning, white teeth catching the reflection of her screen. "Or are you just going to keep…"

She was cut off when Parsons sighted his pistol and shot her in the right leg, just above the middle of the thigh. The major gave a short, high-pitched gasp before tumbling over in a hunter-green-and-white clump behind her desk, face hidden by her long, wavy black hair. Still holding the sidearm, he stepped towards the desk, taking care to avoid stepping on her, and held down on the workstation's power key until the computer shut off completely before taking the tablet computer with him as he left. Just outside her door, he took one look over his shoulder, turned completely and fired two more shots back into her room, one-handed.

Towards the center of Luxembourg City, an unenthusiastic Andrews had been delayed by question after question that followed his short address, and had given up on a quick departure. He hadn't given up on gracefully avoiding answering those questions, however, and instead stood behind his podium, propped up on his arms.

"Colonel Andrews, you are the Luxembourg Press Secretary, aren't you? Won't you say something? Anything?" a journalist in the front row pleaded exasperatedly.

Something in Andrews snapped, and he lifted his head from its stare at the podium. "Actually, I have one thing to say, not as Luxembourg Press Secretary," he said after a loud sigh. "I know that not everyone agrees with OZ, or our mandate, or the United Nations Organization itself. And that's the right of people in a free society. But I would like to say something directly to those who consider themselves allies of the Gundams, their pilots, and the Colony Liberation Organization."

He slammed his gloved hands against the podium. "Seventy thousand. It's a high number, isn't it? That's just over the estimated civilian and military casualties given by the independent observation groups, and the Yuy Foundation, from the beginning of May right up to the Gundam attack the day before last."

He reached into a pocket and produced a small piece of paper that he unfolded. "Seven million, four hundred and thirty-eight thousand, five-hundred and sixty. That's the listed population of the colony destroyed by the new Gundam as of their last census. Seven million people evacuated by OZ. If those people hadn't been evacuated by the Space Forces Navy and the local Colonial Militia, a single Gundam pilot would have committed a war crime unheard of in recent history.

The press room had finally gone silent, as he wanted it. Andrews looked at his adjutant, who simply shrugged back from behind the curtain, rubbed his forehead for a second before looking up again. "And that's all I have to say—that, and that and I hate all of you. Good evening."

The silence terminated, and the press corps was alive once more, verbally if not physically chasing after him with nonstop chatter as he left the stage. Andrews gave a sigh and undid his crimson uniform jacket.

"Well, that was…something sir," his adjutant told him.

Andrews glanced at him with wide, bloodshot eyes. "What day is it today?"

"Excuse me, sir?"

"I've been awake for almost sixty hours. For me, that's a long time."

"It's 24 September," he said slowly. "Thursday."

He nodded. Treize Khushrenada had resigned the morning of 23 September, A.C. 195, now it was past midnight after that. It made sense, even if he didn't have any immediate recollection of the day of the week any more than he knew his comrade Eva Cebotari was lying in a pool of blood behind her desk several blocks away, as the last helicopter departed from the Military Commissariat.

"Do you remember officer's school, how the Foundation and the U.N.O. would send all those civilian management experts to lecture us? Do you remember what they would say in those stress management courses—'Most heart attacks occur around zero-nine-hundred on Monday'?" He folded his uniform coat and held it between his arms. "Do you think that's true?"

The other officer frowned. "Possibly sir. Not in our profession, probably, but under normal circumstances."

He tugged at his collar. "If you're going to die, Monday morning sounds like a pretty good time to do it. If you weren't in our profession."

"I completely agree, Colonel."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>_

_Another record long chapter (blame a creeping uncertainty of where I could break it in half for better consumption), with I hope a strong beginning and an ending, if a somewhat dragging middle. This chapter had to set up a lot of things that happen in the immediate future, things I'm still not completely sure how to handle, like Walker's "departure" if you could call it that. I'm happy where it finally ended, at least, but it could be better. It also took longer than it should have to produce. _

_On the bright side, I can promise with some certainty that the next chapter will be shorter. Remember when a major purpose of this story was to bring together disparate story arcs and the plot conflicts between the TV series and _The Glory of Losers_ manga? Yes, I do to, I haven't forgotten. The next chapter should bring back the plot lines from, among other things, _G-Unit/The Last Fortress_ and a few other things. _

_But here we are! The catastrophic OZ split begins, between loyalists and the Treizists (or "Treize Faction"). I've literally spent months trying to figure out how this happens in a believable fashion, especially given what we do see (for example, Treize spending a short time under house arrest in the recap episode). What we see in the series is something of an unusual event: unlike OZ's coup against the Alliance, which has clear historical analogs, military uprising like what happens against the adoption of mobile dolls are certainly common in their own right, but muddled and unclear. In some respects, we're something similar to famous uprisings like the _Potempkin _in 1905, but implemented on a worldwide scale but without a clear political goal (aside from the vindication of Treize himself, and for what? "Fire Treize, and all hell will break lose?" If so, clearly they were right.). _

_Well, we'll see where this goes, the Treize Faction storyline continues for several more episodes before Queen Relena's downfall. In the meantime, I'm not going to promise more Relena as of yet, but you can expect some fun times with Pope Peter Paul II and his ruling on this whole military catastrophe (I bet you thought, after the whole Utah angle, I wasn't going to do anything religious anymore-think again!). Think of famed actor Peter O'Toole in his part of Pope Paul III in _The Tudors _(really, one of the best things of that whole show, hands down), and you might have an idea what to expect. As always, let me know what you liked and what you hated, and thanks for reading!_


	56. Rubicon, III

**Soldier of OZ: Walker's Account**

**Chapter 56 – Rubicon, III**

His arms clinging to another officer—a woman he determine by her comparative size and musculature—Flight Lieutenant Walker sat on the back of the motorcycle racing out of Leopoldsburg going west on E314. While his head rested on the shoulder of her uniform, he found himself listening to that one cylinder four-stroke engine when he realized what he was hearing and riding on.

"This is an Armstrong MT500. This is _my _Armstrong MT500!" he shouted at the rider.

No response from her. Feeling his anger get the better of his sense of road safety, he waited until they were on a clear straightaway, took a deep breath and began squeezing her waist between both arms. The rider quickly got the picture.

"Pull over!" he shouted. He spotted her shoulder rank insignia—two diamonds, rather than three like his. "That's an order, Flight Officer!"

The rider's muscles had tensed—she wasn't really that muscular, but rather slender with something very familiar about her—and she seemed to start struggling the tiny amount she could manage without losing her balance. Walker gradually squeezed harder and harder until she had no choice either to force him off or fulfill his request, and she did both.

When they'd slowed down to less than ten kilometers an hour, an elbow to the face was enough to knock Walker off and onto his back, getting another cry in pain from him as he held his face. The woman extended the kickstand and climbed off the bike before pulling off her goggles. She crossed her arms and waited for Walker to stop writhing in pain.

It took a few minutes, but Walker was back on his feet, pulling his own goggles off. "What the hell was that? And what the hell is wrong with you, Flight Officer…"

When Walker's vision in the dim light focused he immediately became angry. "_Tsujimoto?_ God damn it! Why, why am I even surprised? What the hell are you doing?" he screeched.

Goggles in one hand, Tsujimoto Nabiki put the other on her hip as Walker began pacing in a circle before stopping at the motorcycle knelt and punched it with one hand, ranting the whole time. "What the hell is the matter with you people? It's not bad enough you want to ruin your own careers, you drove across Belgium to ruin mine as well? You're not even a pilot!"

He paced around a little more before doubling back and kicking the motorcycle with his left boot, his boot bouncing ineffectually off it. "Do you think this is some kind of game?" he yelled, looking back at her.

Nabiki rolled her eyes, waiting for him to finish. He hadn't though and was pacing up and down the road manically. "Why did I run off? Why? Never mind what the hell's wrong with you people, that's clear—you're all completely insane—what the hell's wrong with me? How do I keep making the same mistakes over and over again?" he muttered to himself, coming to a halt about eight meters down the road from her, hand on his face. "God, what about Kanna and the boys? Did I even see them get away?" he asked himself, more worried than angry now.

"Are you finished?" he heard Nabiki ask, and worry was immediately replaced with ire.

"We are all done! We've all be undone, thanks to you and your mad commander!" he snapped. "I don't even want to think about what kind of psychotic actions you've committed back at Chièvres."

"We obtained a dozen mobile suits and a pair of carrier aircraft," she said with total disinterest.

"What did I just say?" Walker barked, the veins in his neck visibly pulsating. "God, is that why you grabbed me? It is, isn't it?"

_He's not as stupid as he appears sometimes. _Nabiki didn't vocalize her thoughts, but a look from Walker gave the strong impression he could guess at them. "Fine then, since you're so inclined to answer my questions Nabiki, Ms. Tsujimoto, answer this for me: Why? Why me? First Kaliningrad, then D-120, now here? Why is it that at _every _unpleasant juncture at my life, you seem to be present, like some sort of socially damning albatross hanging from my neck?" he asked, gesturing at his collar.

Her own patience exhausted, Nabiki clasped her hands together and batted her eyelashes. "Oh! Forgive me, Flight Lieutenant, sir, for rescuing you from a _Belgian military prison_. Grow the fuck up, Walker!" she yelled in his face, forcing him to turn away in anger and walk back up to the bike and kick it over again, this time with success. Almost immediately, he knelt down, grabbed it by its handlebars and pulled it off the grassy shoulder, setting it back upright as she continued.

"You ever think just once that there's some things you don't understand? That maybe something happens in the universe that you don't fully comprehend and maybe, just maybe, this is one of those things? But that couldn't be the case, huh? Answer this for me: if you know understand everything in the universe, why the hell are you pilot in OZ?" she shouted at his back, her dark brown bob haircut illuminated in the light from the two lamps hanging above the nearby road sign. Walker turned to the light and looked like he was about to respond.

"Don't blame me for your social ineptitude around anyone in a uniform with two X-chromosomes! That's _God's _fault!" she shouted him down before strolling up to him and grabbing both his arms. "Now give me back the keys, you can do whatever the hell you want but I'm not walking all the way back to Chièvres!"

Walker looked a little surprised that she'd notice him take the keys from the motorcycle's ignition switch, but kept both hands clasped over it defiantly and with enough force that Nabiki couldn't pry them apart on her first attempt. She stared at him, his clenched jaw barely held back from a petulant grin. Just the hint of it from the stone-faced Walker infuriated her and for a moment she looked as though she was going to strike him, only for that anger to immediately abate. Nabiki straightened out the hem of her uniform and buttoned her collar closed before fixing her hair with one hand, an image of calmness.

Standing still by the road sign, Walker kept the key hidden in one hand but began brushing some of the grass and dirt off of his own uniform.

"Walker, Walker," she mumbled, keep a delicate hand in her short hair. "Never able to turn off, are you?"

"Some have suggested that, yes," he mumbled back, straightening his tailcoat with his free hand.

She glanced at him with large brown eyes with a worrying amount of cold calculation behind them. "You found out what happened, otherwise you wouldn't have run. Right?"

He gave a quiet nod of acknowledgment.

"Then you have to know why it's happening," she said, crossing her arms. "You're not stupid, Walker, if anything, your problem is that you're just smart enough to pass the threshold of suffering."

Walker laughed bitterly as he brushed more grass off his uniform. "If you know me so well, Nabiki, what is it that you're going to say to change the fact that even with my political inclinations and personal loyalties, I want no part in your mutiny?"

Nabiki gave a very smart smirk and stuck out her right hand, raising her index finger. "One thing."

Walker leaned towards her in expectation.

"If you won't do it, Walker, they'll have to find someone else who will."

Walker gave her an incredulous look, putting his free hand against his head, as though it were the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. Then he remembered the letter he kept carefully folded in one of his pockets, signed by His Excellency, and the astonishment drained from his face.

Nabiki kept her hand extended until Walker groaned loudly and turned around after throwing back the motorcycle key. "I don't have the words to express my disgust with you, your comrades, or myself," he muttered before reaching down and picking up his luggage from along the road, slinging it over his shoulder. He stood along the ringside and stared west, as if counting the illuminated road signs further down E314.

Nabiki resisted the urge to smirk further, climbing back on the motorcycle and turning the ignition. "If the MP_s _haven't followed us this far, they're probably not coming. Antwerp and the sea is about forty kilometers that way," she said, pointing north. "France is about eighty kilometers that way," she said, pointing south.

She smirked. "Pretty long walk in tall boots."

"I've walked longer," he speculated. "Take N10 all the way up to Rivierenhof, then to the docks."

"And all you'd need to get around are the Rifles of Antwerp," she reminded him.

Rubbing his chin and neck, Walker approached the motorcycle and climbed onto the seat behind her. "Don't say anything. Whatever needs to be said, your boss can tell me," he mumbled.

"So long as you don't try to squeezing me to death," she said before kicking up the stand and twisting the accelerator.

**II**

Following its completion at the Alliance's Copernicus Shipyards on Luna, the _Grand Chariot_ (BC-122) had been intended as the command ship for the Special Mobile Suit Troops extraterrestrial taskforce, codenamed 'Prize', to be deployed in Outer Space against threats like the Colony Liberation Organization. When the Alliance Space Navy was dissolved, however, the ship was never fully outfitted and was instead relegated to various duty in the L1 Fleet. With the conclusion of the Noventan Strategic Offensive Operation, much of the fleet was redistributed for normal security duties around the First Lagrange Point. The _Grand Chariot _was moored at L1-C-102 for resupply and re-staffing, barely a month since its initial launching.

Operating on local time, Lieutenant Colonels Armonia and Brooks waited in the rather unmilitary-looking and overly-furnished officer's stateroom below the command tower. A plaque on the wall indicating the room itself was a donation from the Romefeller Foundation, a careful reproduction of the sitting rooms of the Royal Palace of Madrid, complete with a functioning-if-unused fireplace. In contrast with their last meeting, this time it was Brooks who was pacing about angrily with Lady Soris sat in an expensive chair, legs crossed and looking disinterested.

"I can't believe this!" Brooks shouted. "Unacceptable, utterly unacceptable! To think the Board of Governors who be so…so…"

"Wait, I'm confused. So they _didn't _have the power to put Treize under arrest?" she asked inquisitively.

Brooks gave her an angry look. "You know what I mean! God, sometimes you're as annoying as your sister," he snapped, immediately getting a grin from Soris as Squadron Commander Ross Nathaniel entered, running a hand through his blonde locks. "Took your time, Nathaniel."

The much younger man smirked at him. "Please, running around in a panic over this does no good." Brooks snorted at him as he stood near Soris, who found the whole thing extremely amusing. "So, what exactly happened?"

She sighed. "The G-20 Summit was ended prematurely. Treize voiced his grievances about the direction of war, the civilian leadership, the Foundation and so forth and gave his resignation. Some theatrics with His Grace later, and he's house arrest," she explained without her usual enthusiasm.

She could tell at least a little of it went over the young man's head as he processed it. "I didn't think the Foundation had that sort of power."

"They _don't_," Brooks growled. "The Supreme Military Commission, maybe, but not the Foundation."

"Could you have some tea brought in?" Lady Soris asked Nathaniel, kicking at a log in the fireplace with a boot at the end of a long leg. Nathaniel nodded and gestured at the junior officer waiting by the door.

"I'm telling you, they won't stand for it—not the army in Luxembourg, nor the Lake Victoria Academia. We're going to have a full-scale mutiny on our hands," Brooks warned, pausing when the officer returned, pushing a tea cart that immediately got his attention.

"Why do you even care, I thought you hated His Excellency?" Nathaniel asked off-handedly.

Brooks paced up to him and, with surprising swiftness, backhanded the young man. Nathaniel held himself, staring up at the taller man, his head and pride hurt. "Haven't you been listening, don't think just because you were made count at eighteen doesn't mean you don't have to listen!" he snapped. "Don't you remember what happened to Tubarov? Treize could get a half-dozen men to shoot him in front of Duke Dermail Catalonia himself at a word! What do you think the _divisions _of officers and pilots in the Mobile Suit Troops are going to do if he says a few more words? We'll have a complete goddamn breakdown of the entire armed forces, top to bottom!"

"Where is Tubarov anyway?" Soris asked.

"Oh, who the hell knows? I don't even know where Une is, much less Tubarov, and her office is right outside the goddamn _ship_," he muttered as the officer began pouring tea carefully. "No wonder this is farce is playing out," he said with a sigh, taking a cup.

"And Zechs?" Soris asked.

"God, and Zechs Merquise. The Military Commissariat really _can't _do anything right can they?" Brooks sneered before sipping his tea and looking surprised. "Walker, this is excellent," he announced.

The junior officer bowed politely in response and Brooks's voice recovered its edge. "Wherever Zechs is, I'm sure he can be counted on to make things worse like only he can. So expect him to go out of his way to alienate anyone he ever knew once the opportunity presents itself."

Soris rolled her eyes at the observation as Nathaniel cleared his throat. "Zech's eccentricities aside, is it clear who'll replace Treize?"

She cocked her head. "Farkill? He's certainly been gunning for that position for years, hasn't he?"

"I certainly hope not," Nathaniel mumbled. "I don't expect I'll miss Treize—but if there's one man who'd make me eat those words, it's him."

Brooks nodded in agreement. "Smart lad. Pay attention, Soris, maybe you'll learn the fear of God you've been lacking so far," he warned, which only got a sharp laugh from her in response.

"_Is _the specter of Treizism looming before us?" she asked. "What would that even be? Stratocracy, meritocracy, anti-monarchism?" she speculated.

"I don't even want to think about it. I didn't become a knight to wade up to my waist in philosophy," Brooks growled. "I'd wager Nathaniel here feels the same."

**III**

"How many are we counting on?"

"Probably about twenty-two hundred? We don't have exact numbers, but it'd correspond with the airbase's own records."

Warrant Officer Cameron sat in one of the side doors of a tall, eight-wheeled armored transport with a turret housing a 30 mm autocannon and a coaxial 14.5 mm heavy machinegun—in effect, the most firepower immediately available to the ten-man CAST squad. They were hidden just the edge of a tree grove overlooking the small farm fields outside of Mons, a small city south of Chièvres that was home to the United Earth Sphere Alliance Army Command Headquarters, housed in a large, rectangular complex of buildings with two rows of flags in front of it. A trooper using the armored vehicle's periscope could clearly make out the building in the middle of Mons, at the intersection of Rue Grande and Avenue de Berlin, with visible signs of fortification.

"We're definitely looking at two thousand minimum," he announced.

"Should we call in support fire?" Cameron's sergeant asked.

Cameron frowned. Less than fifteen kilometers away at Chièvres, an OZ-07AMS was resting on its back, its 90 mm chaingun and missile pods configured for air-to-ground combat, turning the aerial mobile suit into improvised light artillery that was standing by for coordinates from a forward observer, in this case, them.

"Warrant Officer?"

"Even with indirect fire, an Aries could level flatten that entire building, and anyone in it, in about a minute."

"And the problem is, sir?"

He sighed. "Crazy as it may sound, I'd rather keep that as a last resort. I mean, shooting each other is one thing, but we're not exactly lobbing cruise missiles at each other by the dozens. Besides, I'm pretty sure that building used to house SHAPE—the Supreme Headquarters of Allied Powers in Europe, back during NATO. It's a historical site."

"Well it's not exactly a Bourbon dynasty castle, sir."

"Learn some subtly, Sergeant. If First Recon wants that building knocked down, I'll spot for them, but I'm not giving the order. Isn't that building a civil defense shelter?"

Another enlisted man circled around the armored transport, holding a French-printed booklet listing evacuation zones across the subdivisions of Belgium. "No sir. The Alliance ordered emergency shelters built underneath the Mons Railway Station on the west side of the city."

"So what are we looking at in terms of bypasses?"

The sergeant unfolded a paper map, blatantly obtained for a Belgian tourism office. "There's a country road that goes through the village of Thieusies. At most, we're looking at one roadblock with two to three squads."

"Well, that sounds much more manageable," Cameron announced cheerfully, tapping the sergeant with his helmet before tossing it over his shoulder and into the vehicle's cabin. "Bring us up to a good vantage point of the village crossroads, we'll request fire near the Headquarters, probably that football field on Avenue D'Damsterdam with the motor pool in the middle. That'll get their attention, then we clear out Thieusies."

The sergeant slung his rifle taken previously from military police stocks over his back and gave a confirming nod. "Yes sir."

It took less than ten minutes to get the armored vehicle in position and put the small village, and the detachment of unlucky infantry in the middle of it, in the sights of their main gun, while the sergeant was calling in coordinates.

"Cameron Squad to Damocles Artillery. Requesting diversionary fire support on football field at Mons, coordinates are fifty-fifty-twenty by three-ninety-seven-seventy-six to cover us as we advance on Thieusies," the sergeant said before waiting for a confirming response.

Cameron waited atop the transport, crouched behind its turret, binoculars in hand. "Well?"

"Coordinates received, artillery support incoming!" the sergeant shouted back as Cameron pulled his armored helmet back on and slid off the armored vehicle. They waited a full twenty seconds after HEAM rounds and missiles began pounding the football field at Mons before they opened fire on the village street intersection in front of Saint Pierre Church, raking the hastily-constructed roadblock with high-explosive fire. The Earth Army soldiers and their own noncommissioned officers took cover and fired back, but the weapons they had that could harm the armored transport—handheld light antitank weapons—were quickly suppressed. It was all over even before the artillery strike concluded.

"Village clear?" Cameron asked after crawling through one of the side doors as a CAST man looked through the infrared telescope.

"Clear sir, but we've got a motorcycle coming up the road, about four-hundred meters. Looks like two riders."

"Hold you fire, those are our guests," Cameron instructed. "Bring us into the village, three to cover the Rue de la Roche, three to cover Rue du Chateau. Keep an eye out for any wounded."

"Yes sir!"

The armored transport, the long barrel of its autocannon still hot, was waiting in front of Saint Pierre Church as the small military motorcycle merged onto Place de Thieusies and came to a halt in front of what was left of the roadblock, the street pockmarked with holes left by the autocannon. CAST were unceremoniously dragging the village's remaining defenders into a pile by nearby open-air café, their dark green normal suits shiny with blood stains up to the elbows. Standing by a number of gunfire-ruptured sandbags, Cameron looked almost cheerful as he waved the motorcyclists down.

"Ms. Tsujimoto, ma'am! Glad to see you made it back, Ms. Syed Khan told us to expect you."

Nabiki quickly surveyed the intersection of Place de Thieusies and Place de la Motte. "Geeze, you guys really opened up here."

"It was the lesser of two evils," he assured her as her passenger climbed off the motorcycle anxiously, recovered his footing, and then stared the bodies lined up by the café. "Flight Lieutenant Walker, it's a pleasure to see you again, sir," Cameron announced, keeping his conversational tone.

Walker didn't seem to hear him, instead staring at the slain Earth Army soldiers, most stuck by heavy machinegun fire but at least one literally missing its leg from when a particularly thirty-millimeter round passed through it before blowing a hole in the wall behind its owner. The flight lieutenant almost lost his footing again, putting a hand over his mouth. Nabiki said nothing.

"Flight Lieutenant!" Cameron shouted, this time nearly in his ear, after he'd taken Walker by the arm. Walker turned abruptly and stared at him, his look of disturbed horror replaced by surprise.

"Warrant Officer Cameron? What-what are you doing here?" he asked, genuinely shocked. "When did you leave _Barge_?"

"It's a long story, sir, one I'd be happy to share with you, but we really need to be getting back to Chièvres before the Rifles of Ghent investigate what happened to their roadblock."

Walker wiped some of the sweat from his brow and adjusted his goggles. "Of course, I'm sorry. I just…never mind, let's just go."

As Cameron led Walker to the armored transport, his sergeant looked at a nearby CAST man and tutted his disapproval. "Easy with that look, Corporal. It's just not just he's a pilot, how many of us expecting we'd be shooting and shot at by others in hunter green?"

"That's…a good point, Sergeant. I'm sorry, sir," the corporal immediately and apologetically conceded.

The sergeant smirked as Walker and Nabiki boarded the armored transport before snapping his finger. "Hey, does this thing still work? We can use it!" he announced before running up to the motorcycle and climbing atop it. He and another CAST man, both displaced by the newcomers in the armored transport, rode alongside in the motorcycle instead.

By the time they returned together, Chièvres had a strangely normal air about it, a few holes lining the sides of the larger hangars and the ATC tower looking deliberately unoccupied, its glass panes completely shot up. For the length of the trip, to the anxiety of the CAST and the disregard of Nabiki, Walker said nothing as he sat, hands together, by the door. He had an immediately suspicious look about him when he raised his head out through the side door, then climbed out, only to have Nabiki pushing him once in the right direction.

"This actually looks like a proper transport hub," he muttered, watching the CAST sergeant push his motorcycle towards one of the two massive Antonov airlifters positioned long the primary runway, gingerly wheeling it up the cargo ramp. Other CAST men and women in their armored suits were scattered among the crowd, mostly officers in their hunter greens and airbase ground crew in duller-colored uniforms. He immediately picked out the 1st Space Recon Battalion patches sewn onto the sleeves of many of the officers.

"Well what were you expecting?" a familiar voice asked. Standing by a fueling tanker, Walker's heart visibly sank, as indicated by his faltering posture before he recovered and turned.

"Squadron Commander Ogasawara, Flight Lieutenant Walker of Seventh Division," Cameron announced, standing at attention while Nabiki rolled her eyes and put a hand on her hip.

Ogasawara Emi, war paint slightly smudged and black crop top pulled unevenly over her chest, smirked a little at Walker, who stood there in turn, arms at his side but not in a military posture. "Thank you, Cameron."

"Yes ma'am," he said, saluting before he departed.

"_Konbanwa_, Walker-_tai-i_," she told him, still smiling.

She expected more glowering silence, but Walker answered immediately and loudly. "You know, Commander, I'm not really clear on whether or not I should be saluting you. Or even referring to you by rank," he managed to snap out with only some outright hostility in his voice.

Emi grinned even more, this time devilishly. "Call me 'Emi' and don't salute. I didn't bring you here for the pleasure of your company, _Flight Lieutenant_, I brought you here because there's a line of people who want your expertise, and I'm at the front of it."

"Would that be for your private mutiny, _Emi_?"

"Is that what you'd call this?" she asked quietly, sounding almost happy.

"No, I would call this a manifestation of your personal grudge against the Romefeller Foundation coinciding with the arrest of His Excellency," Walker replied, loudly and plainly.

Staring at him, Emi's face broke and she began laughing, holding her sides as her chest shook up and down. Walker couldn't recall the last time he'd seen her laugh, much less that hard.

"Stick with your original words, Walker," she said as her laughter died down. "Where're Kanna and your boys?"

"Somewhere safe, I would hope, far away from this catastrophe you've created."

This also amused her. "Catastrophe, huh? Do you remember when we first met, Walker?"

He managed to keep an empty, neutral expression. "That was at Nairobi, Kenya, before Operation 'Daybreak'. We were both part of Zechs Merquise's unit, after you were diverted from the Special Recon Battalion."

"I heard you were a good with mobile suits, so I asked you to look at mine before the battle."

Walker kept his jaw locked shut, and she continued. "Do you know who told me that?"

"Colonel Zechs?"

"No. Lucrezia Noin."

Walker tried to hide the surprise that must have appeared on his face, however briefly, before fading back into mildly hostile apathy. "That was before a different revolution," she mumbled, glancing off to the side at the results of her handiwork.

"Forgive me for not agreeing with that comparison," Walker growled.

Keeping her eyes in the direction of the airlifters, Emi gradually approached Walker. When Nabiki took a wide step back, Walker look at her, only to miss Emi taking the front of his tunic and shoving him against the fuel tanker behind him. He managed to not make a sound, arching his head a little to avoid her other arm, pressed against the polished surface of the tanker just over his shoulder.

"Then why are you here, Walker?" she asked, still quiet, still looking back at the airlifter. "Because you were ordered to? Because your conscious demanded it? Any other stupid reasons you'd like to give?"

He stared at the side of her head, focusing on one of the large, teardrop-shaped gemstone earrings she wore. She'd worn those back then during 'Daybreak' he remembered. "You're suggesting I have a choice."

"We _all _have a choice here. This might be the only time we've ever had one. Do you think most of a battalion is following me because I pushed them around like this?" she whispered.

Walker gave a snort. "Then what do you intend to do?"

"The same thing I've always done—defeat all my enemies and win. I'm a creature of habit, Walker, I did the same thing before I came to OZ, the difference is my enemies come in eighteen-meter-tall war machines," she said, now smiling. She then turned back to him. "What do _you _think I'm doing?"

Walker cocked his head. "I think you're doing the same thing Zechs Merquise did. You're fighting a private war for a world of reasons, but in the end, it's only for one person."

"And who's that?"

Maintaining eye contact, Walker reached up with his right hand and with his index finger, poked her in the chest once, his meaning unmistakable. She smirked again, releasing him. "Is that why you're here? You followed a madman in the past, now you'll follow a madwoman?"

Walker grunted softly, keeping as much distance between his face and hers as he could manage as he pressed against the fuel tank behind him. "I'd tell you that it's not too late to leave, but you don't have anywhere else to go, do you? So then I guess that just leaves my little 'Satsuma Rebellion', doesn't it?"

No response. By now, Emi had gradually leaned further and further down, forcing Walker to slump against the fuel tank and even bend his knees. She pushed off with her other hand before taking him by the shoulder and shoving him away from the tanker. Walker managed to stay on his feet, awkwardly sliding free. "Then I guess that makes you one of my disaffected samurai, doesn't it?"

Walker straightened his uniform. "They lost, didn't they?"

Emi gave him a smile, this one considerably less hostile and a little more mocking. "Over here."

Straightening out his uniform again, Walker followed Emi parallel to the runway, then up the large ramp of the closer airlifter. A steady procession of ground crew and Mobile Suit Troops were ferrying containers or equipment up and down the ramp with evident urgency.

"They left us plenty of aviation fuel, and both aircraft were undamaged when we took them. But I didn't want you here for the airlifters," she confessed in an almost easygoing tone. "We've got six machines per aircraft, fully equipped for the North Atlantic Air Army, along with a complete set of spare parts."

Walker tried to match her tone. "You know that Terrestrial Air Forces could shoot down both of these airlifters in a few seconds." It wasn't a question.

"How do you think we got them?" she questioned back. "They still have chaff and flare."

She turned in time to see Walker giving her a rather skeptical look and sighed. "We're going to have our Aries mobile suits escorting, possible also our new Taurii."

Walker blinked. "So they've started deploying the airborne variant? It's in terrestrial service?"

"See for yourself."

Walker glanced at Emi again before running past her to the top of the ramp and looking into the aircraft's hold. Emi watched him staring into the dim interior lighting as more ground crew rushed past him, putting a hand on her hip.

"Well?" she asked, after a few moments of silence.

"I'll need to see the crew primer and the operations manual," Walker said finally, not looking away from the cargo hold. A pilot running down the ramp stopped to his side, reached into his satchel, and stuffed a thin notebook into his chest before saluting. Walker just nodded warily before holding up the pilot's field primer for an OZ-12AMS 'Taurus'.

"We'll find you a copy of the manual," she added, referring to the longer, more comprehensive text.

"If…when you're conducting combat operations, you'll also need an actual airbase, or nautically either a light aircraft carrier or larger. Of course, these aircraft could only land safely on a supercarrier, if that." He put his hand on his head. "God, what am I even saying? A supercarrier? Like you've convinced the captain of a hundred-thousand-tonne warship to see join in your insanity?"

"That's not my personal approach," she answered.

"Really? And what is it?"

"I'll show you once we get to Épinoy."

Walker craned his neck. "Forgive me, Épinoy? As in Épinoy Airbase in France?" He put both hands on his head this time. "And what exactly is it that you plan to do in Épinoy?"

She answered as if it was the most mundane thing possible, barely worth her time, either answering his question or the answer itself, Walker wasn't sure. "To negotiate."

**IV**

After an eventful night the sun finally rose over the Central European Time zone. In Rome, where as in Luxembourg and Brussels it was UTC+01:00, the Cardinal Secretary of State of the Holy See was relieved to see his sovereign, the Pope, up and about. An emergency meeting had been called while His Holiness slept—the State Relations Section of the Roman Curia had spent the night compiling everything they could find about what had transpired north of them in central Belgium.

Having finished his traditionally short breakfast and morning constitution, Pope Peter Paul II leisurely entered his office in the Apostolic Palace in Vatican City to see three cardinals in their uniforms of bright red patiently but anxiously waiting for him.

"Good morning, sirs, and what is OZ up to today?" he asked as soon as he entered the room, taking an overly grand tone. He spoke English, and thus, so did most of the people he worked with on a daily basis.

Before becoming Pope Peter Paul II, Cardinal Michael Patrick O'Connell had been the popular archbishop of the Roman Catholic Archdioceses of Armagh, a position he held for just shy of sixteen years. Sometime before that, he was Captain Michael O'Connell of the United Earth Sphere Alliance Army, where he'd served as the young deputy chief-of-staff of their Dublin Headquarters. Thus it was no surprise when he was elected by the conclave that he was popular among both the Alliance military and then OZ in turn, and came to be known as _quae militem papa—_the soldier's pope. He is the first pontiff to visit the space colonies after the Alliance's declaration of martial law, and the first to hold mass at all five Lagrange points as well as Luna. He is also the lone Bishop of Rome to sit briefly in the cockpit of a mobile suit, albeit before he was elected to his position.

In his white papal regalia, the pope saw the waiting cardinals and gestured at them to take their seats; all but the eldest, a man almost twenty years his senior, declined. Sitting behind his desk in the middle of the elaborately-furnished office, he nodded at the prelate who had followed him up to the door, his chamberlain. "Thank you, Jean."

"Holy Father," the younger prelate nodded before excusing himself.

"I'll repeat: what has transpired, and where do we stand?" he said, before reaching down and indiscreetly rubbing his ankles. "Or sit more like. I'm not enjoying this whole 'getting old' thing," he commented offhandedly.

The Cardinal Secretary of State spoke. "Your Holiness, the interservice conflict that's begun in Belgium, outside of Brussels, has not abated. In fact, since last night around the time Luxembourg issued a statement on that matter, it's gotten much worse. The world press has determined beyond any doubt that at least one aircraft shot down over the North Sea was attributable to the fighting, and outside Brussels itself, some of these new weapons, these…" he began, looking through notes.

"Mobile suits, Dominic, mobile…suits…" he repeated, barely refraining from rolling his eyes. The Cardinal Secretary of State was an excellent administrator and an unquestionably hard worker, but the former Archbishop of Cape Coast in Ghana was decidedly unfamiliar with military technology rarely seen in his archdiocese.

"…these mobile suits have been used as artillery by one side against the other, and are extremely capable and dangerous weapons, Holy Father," he explained carefully.

"Given the modus operandi of OZ, that's unfortunately not surprising. Have the actual military units involved been ascertained yet?"

The Cardinal Secretary of State deferred to the younger man standing to his left, who bowed his head politely. "Your Holiness, our diplomatic mission in Belgium has been hard at work investigating just that, and has turned up some results," he explained, opening up his leather briefcase and handing the pope a digital tablet in standby mode. The pope tapped the screen twice, and it lit up. "The unit that began the fighting, as far as we can tell, is a battalion in the Extraterrestrial Mobile Suit Troops branch that had just returned from the First Lagrange Point, called the 'First Reconnaissance Battalion'."

Comfortable with the technology, the pope swiped through a few pages of text skipping past the minutia of the military order of battle until he came to a photograph a stern but stunning officer in uniform and a dark complexion.

"There is not currently an overall battalion commander, but its forces in Belgium were under the command of this Asian woman who was just decorated by His Grace Dermail Catalonia, whom obviously you are familiar with," the cardinal explained.

The pope nodded—he actually knew Dermail Catalonia personally, though he'd hardly consider them 'friends'. "This woman, her name is Japanese. How would you pronounce it?"

The cardinal stepped over to the desk again and looked at the tablet's screen. "Squadron Commander Emi Ogasawara."

"Quite the looker, I would say. Hard to imagine that such a beautiful girl would be leading an armed revolt barely kilometers away from the center of all military operations on Earth, but I suppose that shows you that appearances are deceiving." He used two fingers to zoom in on her dossier photograph, expanding her rigid but elegant features and her large brown eyes. "My predecessor, _requiescat in pace_, would have made the mistake of underestimating such a woman, a dangerous error in this age," he said, crossing himself as the cardinals did the same.

"So, this First Reconnaissance Battalion has obtained weapons, including aircraft and mobile suits, and managed to hold off the whole of the Belgian military?"

"In a sense, Your Holiness. The Belgians have had a very difficult time responding, presumably because they fear damaging expensive hardware and infrastructure."

"I recall not that many years ago that the Alliance had to deal with various isolated military mutinies like this, and they typically send out their _Speciali_ to deal with it. Those troops became what we call OZ today." He leaned back in his comfortable chair. "l doubt a Japanese woman who's not even twenty-five hopes to make herself Queen of Belgium by means of arms. So she was a sympathizer of the former commander-in-chief of OZ, Treize Khushrenada, I take it?" The pope also knew Treize Khushrenada, but again, not personally though he seemed like a very accomplished young man.

"It certainly appears that way, Your Holiness."

"And so his dismissal, or resignation if we are to believe the reports, and subsequent arrest have brought spurred his most loyal men, and women as it appears, into action, and they do so using the trade they know best," he said, glancing at a few of the framed photographs sitting on his desk, including one of a much younger man in the uniform of the Alliance. He had been a boy during the founding of the Alliance, and as a young man, he'd worn the uniform of the very early Alliance military, during the first pacification of the space colonies.

The ancient sitting cardinal spoke, his voice quiet and strained. "It's a disaster and an absolute shame…"

"That's putting it mildly," the pope added.

"…but in any case, it has already begun, nor does it show any signs of abating. Of course, the Holy See's position must be made clear eventually, but I'm not advocating a conclusion be made before we have an understanding of what's actually going on," he rasped. "Frankly, all of this is over my head."

The pope nodded in agreement. "When OZ's overthrow of the old Alliance became a reality of the world, and along with it the termination of the shaky peace the Alliance had brought upon, the Church had to accept that reality. After all, they have armies and weapons, whereas we must make do with divine scripture and truth. I don't know if Earth Sphere can so easily handle another such revolution, when the remnants of the last regime are still clinging to life on this world." He pursed his lips and thought for a moment. "Has there been any innocent loss of life?" he asked, 'innocent' clearly meaning 'civilian' in this context.

The Cardinal Secretary of State answered. "None reported yet, Your Holiness. What fighting there has been has been limited to the young woman's unit and a portion of the military in Belgium. Briefly, men belonging to Treize Khushrenada's bodyguard entered Brussels, but they soon departed once the military pursued them…"

"An obvious feint," the pope grumbled.

"Yes, Your Holiness. As I was saying, they departed quickly enough, and the Belgian government has issued evacuations through any localities that risk being caught into the fighting."

"At least they're taking care to limit their violence," he muttered. "For now."

"For now, Your Holiness?"

His Holiness frowned bitterly. "The Foundation should have known better. While they might not advertise the fact—not before now, anyway—the soldiers of OZ love Treize Khushrenada as my flock loves their _papa_, even if they do not necessarily think he was ordained by God. The Foundation certainly knew this, and they should have prepared for the response."

Sighing deeply, he rested his chin on his hand. The cardinals waited quietly, unsure if they should speak again.

"They're going to kill her, you know that?"

"Excuse me, Your Holiness?"

"The poor woman, what was her name? Ogasawara? The Foundation'll kill her and hope that snuffs out the flames of this Treizist revolt. But it won't, even if they're able to it'll just make her and her cohorts the first martyrs to the cause." He thought a moment. "Dominic, I want you to follow what happens at the military's school at Lake Victoria, through our archdioceses in the region if necessary. I'd wager that if this is going to continue, which I think it will, that will be the where the next fire starts."

Abruptly, he rose to his feet, the sitting cardinal promptly if slowly following suit. "Gentlemen, I don't think I need to remind you that OZ is the largest military organization in Earth Sphere, nor that one in six men and women in uniform is a Catholic. Maybe not a good practicing Catholic, but a Catholic nonetheless. Our church is the most widely-held faith among those soldiers, and the affairs of soldiers concern us."

The Cardinal Secretary of State spoke again. "Your Holiness, in that's the case—what's keeping the Romefeller Foundation from killing Treize Khushrenada himself, God forbid?"

The pope considered it. "Well, I'd assume that the princes of Foundation would not harm their own any more than they'd harm a prince of the church. But I said much the same about Zechs Merquise, didn't I?"

**V**

When the final breakout was scheduled—0730 hours—Indira Syed Khan was tasked with finding Walker and alerting him of the plan, assuming he hadn't fled. She had her own suggestion, one she fought was very clever and posed to Emi, who was not as impressed but told her to do as she saw fit.

She found Walker on her first guess: in the hangar nearest to the two airlifters, overseeing ground crew as they scavenge anything of foreseeable value and loading it onto either aircraft. Walker was standing between two ground crewmen, inspecting the disassembled components of a 90 mm chaingun.

"Well, sir?"

"The barrel's usable. The gun feed and gun loader aren't, leave them. Unless they're expecting an arsenal to revolt as well, you're going to run out of barrels sooner or later."

"Yes sir."

"But where are we going to put it? There's not much space left on either aircraft."

"Have an Aries carry it, at least one of them won't be carrying missile pods."

"How about yours?"

Walker looked behind him to see her smiling, goggles around her neck, hair in a neat bun. "Flight Officer Syed Khan."

"'Indira' is fine, sir."

"Indira. What do you mean?"

"We're taking all but one of the Aries mobile suits with us to France. I'd like you to switch with me," she said, with a friendly grin.

The two ground crewmen were already backing away as Indira stood next to him and stared at the long chaingun barrel divorced from its usual housing. "So that's what it looks like on the inside," she mumbled.

"I'm sorry, Indira, why do you want me to switch with you?" Walker insisted, looking at her rather than the barrel.

She grimaced briefly. "Tto tell the truth, this is my first armed revolt. I was grounded during 'Daybreak' because of an overstated injury," she confessed.

Walker's eyes narrowed. "I really don't believe that."

"I thought you might not," she admitted quickly. "Think of it differently then: you should be in a mobile suit yourself for this. This is uncharted territory for all of us, isn't it? If someone gives you a chance to keep a little agency here, you should take it." She cocked her head. "I mean you specifically, sir."

"Specifically me?" he asked skeptically.

She nodded. "I've looked at your sheet. You're a better pilot than you let on—not Recon Battalion good, but still better. Why is that?"

Walker had turned away—apparently their roles had switched, and now he was distracted by the ongoing work further into the hangar. "Why is what? Oh, you mean me. I find that people's low expectations of me help ensure my survival."

"Really?"

"Of course not. Do I look like I have the wherewithal to determine how others see me?"

Indira opened her mouth halfway and froze, a clear indication that she wasn't certain if Walker was being merely spiteful or genuinely serious. She bit down on her lip, turned away momentarily, and then back to him. "Back to what I was saying, I think you should keep whatever agency you can."

"Really? What exactly can one better-than-expected pilot do against an elite flight in the middle of an uprising?"

She raised one white-gloved hand. "This would be part where you use that brain of yours that's so valued, sir." She opened her hand, as if she were on a television commercial selling kitchen appliances. "_But _If you can't figure out a good way to kill all of us, maybe you can come up with an idea for a breakout with minimum casualties. The opposite idea, if you will. Then you can kill us all later," she said, all smiles.

_In other words, either way, I'm killing soldiers and officers in OZ, something you seem to be conveniently ignoring. _Walker groaned and pressed down on his brow. "You people are insufferable," he muttered as a rather upbeat Indira made her way back to the hangar doors.

"You've got until we find His Excellency," she called out. "I'll let Emi know about the switch."

"So you'll be out in the field?" he asked angrily, stopping her.

"If my number's called up," she joked. "If it's necessary, yes," she quickly added in seriousness.

"Then I'd suggest, at this point, you find a way to easily distinguish from similar-looking uniforms at a distance," he explained irritably. "Something more reliable than your collar colors or your unit patches."

**VI**

In the center of the municipality of Ath, north of Chièvres, the forward operating base for the OZ Earth Army's 60th George Cross Division was slowly coming together. The commanding officer of the Third Paracommando Battalion, his injuries treated, listened to his counterpart in the Sixtieth Division shout into his radio set.

"I don't care if it looks like we have a perimeter set up! I'm telling you myself, we cannot hold Hainaut without air support! What do you plan to do when they cross the border into France?" he barked, referring to the surrounding province on the Belgian border.

"What we need are mobile suits," the Third Battalion's commander mumbled, holding his helmet in his lap and checking his wristwatch: 07:27 AM.

"We don't _have _any mobile suits," the executive officer of the Sixtieth Division mumbled quietly and she sketched on a large map with a red pen. Following the bombardment at Mons, the Earth Army's units had finally completed an encirclement around the airbase, even if they had abandoned the city in the process. "And even if we did, who would pilot them? Pilots from the Seventh Aerospace Division?"

"Point taken."

"The simplest solution when be call in the North Sea Squadron and just level the entire airfield with missiles. The _Devonshire _could drop a dozen missiles onto that airfield in a minute, kill every last one of the mutineers." He sighed. "Why isn't that happening?"

"Probably something to do with those aircraft packed with a dozen new mobile suits. The staff wants those back, intact." The Paracommando officer rubbed his eyes. "You people and your bloody machines."

The XO found that funny and laughed. "Maybe, but I'd hate to see what they might do to Brussels in response. They still have at least five operational mobile suits."

"And they can't just evacuate Brussels…"

He nodded. "One thing leads to another. It always does."

"No, I'm telling you, this isn't a siege!" the CO shouted. "You seem to be under the impression that if we just wait a while, they'll run out of food or their morale will break or something like that, but we've barely been here for a day!"

He gave a deep sigh, holding the handset away from his head as the voice on the other hand complained in response. "The General Staff have seen too many hostage negotiation films," he mumbled under his breath, getting a laugh from his XO. "I'm surprised they haven't asked us to try trading officers for pilots."

"You don't think it'd work?" the XO offered in good-natured jest.

The CO seemed to relax and laugh, deep barking that was cut off by barely-discernable thunder. All three officers stared upward in their tent, driven by instinct, completely silent. The tinny voice from the handset continued.

"Nothing, I'm…" the CO began before a louder, closer blast managed to knock them off their feet and the maps off table between them. Alarms blared and two enlisted men ran into the tent.

"They've begun a breakout!"

"Goddamn of course they have! Have all companies hold their positions and have our mortars open fire as soon as they have a firing solution!"

The Sixtieth Division had spent the last few hours of stalemate painstakingly digging defensive trenches and placing sandbag barriers around their towed guns and tripod-placed AMGM. When a pair of Aries mobile suits simultaneously opened fire and climbed to about eighty meters, they immediately took drew a volume of fire equal to several mechanized infantry companies, enough to seriously threaten them. From the relative concealment of the hangars, three remaining mobile suits opened fire with both chainguns and air-to-ground missiles, blasting large gaps in the defensive lines around them. Even with the division's preparation, there was still a severe asymmetry in firepower.

"The flyers are just a distraction, concentrate your fire on the grounded units! Shoot at the grounded machines!" the CO commanded in exasperation.

"Sir, Third and Fourth Company report they're targeting our heavy artillery and guided missiles!"

"Of course they are, they're insane, not stupid! Keep them firing as long as they can, they stop and we're dead!" To him, it appeared they were likely dead either way, but he didn't care to share that prediction. "What about our antiaircraft company?"

Kept in the relative protection of the rear behind an increasingly-battered light armor company, the SPAA and MANPAD-armed battery continued to scan the airspace above and around the airfield, marking the two airborne mobile suits as they continued loitering.

"Eleventh Company to HQ, come in! Requesting permission to fire on the airborne mobile suits!" A radio operator kept repeating the statement next to the young first lieutenant in command of the battery, who stared alternately at the mobile suits and then at the beleaguered army troops surrounding them.

"They're not responding sir! Eleventh Company to HQ, please respond!"

"That's it, target the two airborne mobile suits!" the first lieutenant snapped. "SPAA only!"

"Sir, I'm not sure our SPAA can harm two up-armored mobile suits, and…" an adjutant explained.

"I don't care, I'm not standing by with my thumbs up my ass while the entire division gets annihilated!" the lieutenant screeched before grabbing the radio operator's handset, turning the dial and screaming firing orders into it.

The four box-shaped 5K22 self-propelled antiaircraft guns turned their radar arrays, guns and missiles in the direction of the airspace about the base and after a moment's pause, began firing: long, flashing streams of 30-mm APDS-T (armor piercing rounds with tracer) ammunition followed by more typical high-explosive ammunition, and the veteran ground crews varied their rates of fire between 1,700 and 2,000 RPM as necessary, in bursts of roughly one hundred to two hundred rounds. Unfortunately, they were trained to shoot down helicopters and ground attack aircraft—for that purpose, the Eurasian 5K22 was supremely effective, valued by the Earth Army and the Alliance ground forces before it. A single direct hit by a thirty millimeter shell could shred the wing off the best-armored ground attack aircraft in service—against the combined explosive reactive armor and titanium alloy of an OZ-07AMS, they seemed to merely bounce off or shatter uselessly, depending on the type of munition and the angle of impact.

The battery commander immediately looked worried. "Switch to missiles!"

"Sir, I don't think…"

"I know, just do it man!" he yelled. The vehicle swiftly switched to the eight 4M22-1 surface-to-air missiles each one carried and fired two missiles each. Long streaks reached up to the mobile suits while they deployed chaff and flare, the exploded their eight millimeter diameter rods like flowers, bathing the enemy in deadly shrapnel. After the effect of the continuous-rod warheads faded, one of the mobile suits was trailing smoke and diving, while the other seemed unaffected.

"Keep firing!" The battery commander was about to elaborate when the higher of the two mobile suits retaliated, firing AGM in their direction. The battery, its position now clearly revealed in the early morning light, was promptly engulfed in a number of massive explosives, killing everyone not inside the safety of an armored vehicle.

The woman piloting the higher of the two Aries ignored the alarm tones in her cockpit as she spoke over the channel. "_Do not deviate from the plan, get the antiair battery to use up all its ammunition or kill it, then cover the air evac!_"

"_Acknowledged, Damocles Actual._"

"_Misfit Actual, are you ready on your end?_"

Misfit Actual—whose Aries remained on the ground, periodically firing bursts into the defensive lines to the east while trying to keep out of the heavier retaliating artillery—sounded unhappy. "_Affirmative, Damocles Actual._"

"_Damocles Actual to all callsigns, terminate all fire to zone three, that's the fire zone along N56 up to Ath. We're giving them a chance to route._"

"_Yes ma'am!_"

"_Acknowledged, Squadcom!_"

With their superiority of fire increasing as time went on, units from the Sixtieth Division had noticed the airbase defenders giving them a lone avenue of escape along the N56 road leading up to the A8 motorway north of them, and begun taking advantage of the fact. Those who stayed behind had no way to defend against ninety-millimeter fire and missiles designed to bring down a Leo in one hit, much less something much smaller.

"I told them they should have called in the navy!" That was the last statement from the Sixtieth Division's CO, shouted right before a burst of fire punched large holes in his command vehicle as it tried to race to N56 to organize some sort of counterattack, anything to keep the whole division from a route. Those vehicles and infantry that reached N56 were relatively safe—the rest were slaughtered. They barely noticed the two strategic airlifters that, at some risk to themselves, taxied and hurriedly took off, followed by a smaller transport aircraft, a transorbital shuttle. The three grounded Aries launched with them, and the two airborne mobile suits, including one trailing smoke, followed swiftly afterwards, all of them lighting up the sky with so much chaff and flare it briefly resembled midday.

Inside Misfit Actual, Walker watched the Belgian countryside pass by them harmlessly and pulled off the oxygen mask he'd done out of uncertainty over what kind of altitudes he'd end up in during the breakout, assuming the 60th Division didn't pummel his Aries into pieces. That hadn't happened, and he was still surprised by how easy everything had been.

_Of course it was easy. Even if it's not a Taurus, even if it can't go into space, an outfitted Aries is a heavily-armed war machine, the equivalent of a dozen light tanks all firing in unison. _And he hadn't even been carrying a missile pod, just two chainguns, on in his mobile suit's manipulators and the other underneath a hardpoint in slave-fire configuration, turning his normally-airborne mobile suit into an improvised CIWS firing at minimum ranges.

_This is the first time I've flown an Aries since 2 August, isn't it? When I transferred my machine to the 40__th__ Victoria Cross Airborne Division. _He was a little surprised and disappointed he hadn't thought of that earlier. Had he really just thought he was piloting a Taurus inside a colony's habitation zone again? Was he really so delusional? His eyes wandered around the cockpit, the same layout as a Taurus' but with different gauges, dials and switches appearing periodically.

"_Damocles Actual to Misfit Actual, begin climbing to four-thousand_," a voice interrupted his technical thoughts.

"Sorry! Yes!" he sputtered out, feeling rather guilty as he increased his thrust and pitched up.

"_Busy thinking about ammunition calibers and firing patterns instead of all of the comrades we just cratered?_" Emi's voice asked, very calmly and apathetically.

That mild feeling of guilt suddenly became inflamed along with indignation. "Yes, I get it, I'm predictable! Thank you!" he snapped, only then checking that the line of communication was on a separate channel; mercifully it was. "I apologize for that!" he sheepishly added.

Emi seemed utterly unaffected by his outburst. "_Just stay on alert, there may have been defenses moved to the French border_."

He sighed. "Acknowledged_._" _Apparently, firing at other OZ troops is what it takes to leave my comfort zone_, he thought bitterly, equal parts frustrated and embarrassed and whatever fears he had of a retaliatory strike by another, unseen air defense battery below them promptly vacating his mind.

**VII**

Compared to Chièvres, Épinoy Airbase in the commune of Cambrai was visibly larger, with multiple concentric semicircles of camouflaged bunkers at the far end, the sort that typically held large strategic and maritime strike bombers. In the late morning it was painfully apparent the airbase was nearly abandoned, and after the Épinoy Tower failed hail them, a trio of columns of red smoke rose from the end of the main runway.

"We're back in the Nineteenth Century," Walker mumbled in amazement as the two airlifters began their final approach for a short landing. The cargo aircraft and the shuttle followed, landing just as the cargo aircraft barely finished taxing, and the mobile suits set down, unfolded their legs near the bunkers, a series of tall, grey-black monoliths. _A mobile suit is probably out of the question, but an airbase this size would have plenty of places where you could easily hide a helicopter or a small transport aircraft._

A tone sounded—the private channel from earlier. "_Walker_?"

His mood had improved marginally. "Go ahead, ma'am."

"_These are friends of mine—sort of. Try and look smart, you're going to have to talk eventually._"

"About what?"

"_What do you think?_" A pause, and her voice took a more patient, forgiving tone. "_My next move, based on your expertise._"

_My expertise? _He was tempted to ask, but stopped himself. Killing his turbofans, he brought up his cockpit camera input into a new window on the bottom right of his forward display—he looked tired, but he couldn't remember the last time he hadn't looked tired, and was more focused on how disheveled his uniform was. Whatever Ogasawara had in store for him, he wanted to go into looking presentable at least.

He wasn't alone. By the time he egressed and descended by tether to the tarmac below, Emi had already emerged, now fully-dressed in her hunter greens and having wiped the remaining war paint from her face on a white handkerchief that she pocketed before straightening the hem of her uniform.

"'Almost looks like you're not a fanatic," he told himself very quietly as she approached. "Almost."

Emi had buttoned her collar closed and was quickly straightening the two lines of golden buttons of her bust. "What was that?"

He stood at attention. "Nothing ma'am."

"You don't need to call me that," she told him.

"I rather would, ma'am," he replied coldly.

She rolled her eyes before staring at his arms. "What are you holding?"

Walker looked at the thick stack of folders bound by rubber bands that he'd taken from his cockpit—he'd been sitting on them for the length of the flight. "Uh, mostly Form Seven-Eights," he said quickly. He immediately assumed she wasn't familiar with the military's Form 78, which was often the case with pilots. "They're mobile suit movement cards, the documentation that that follows a mobile suit from the place of manufacture to its final resting place."

Straightening her hair with a free hand, Emi stared at him as though he'd gone completely mad. "You took them from the airbase?"

"I also have the twelve forms that were on the Antonovs," he explained quickly, flipping through the folder and showing her. Emi kept staring at him. "You said look smart. We've just _appropriated _seventeen mobile suits and wrecked another."

Emi's face didn't respond until she'd already passed him and gestured at him to follow—he missed the momentary look of exasperation as another officer ran to their group from the direction of the colored smoke.

"Squadron Commander," an older man shouted with a pronounced Occitan accent as he quickened his pace. He had short, receding dark hair, was rather roughly, even messily shaven and wore a flight lieutenant's uniform with a sky blue collar. Upon reaching Emi, he took both her hands and clasped them, smiling ear-to-ear. Emi smiled back, albeit less dramatically. "Emi. Congratulations on your promotion."

"Thank you, Jean." Emi kept her smile, to Walker's surprise. "You're alone."

"_Plus ou moins_. Who's the boy?" he asked quietly.

"Our technical expert. It's a long story."

"Of course," he said, his voice's volume returning. "You're very lucky, the Air Army's on exercises in Mediterranean and haven't been recalled. Are Indira and Carlos with you?"

"Carlos isn't. He's been spared all of this, recovering from an injury."

"_Dieu merci_. And I suppose that little girl Nabiki is still here?" he said, glancing in the direction of the nearest airlifter.

Emi gave a coy grin and shrugged. "Are the other waiting?"

"Yes, they were starting to worry you wouldn't make it."

"I'll go calm them down. Take him inside, keep him out of trouble until the meeting."

He nodded, still sounding cheerful. "Come now, you must need something more from me. Ask anything, I'll do what I can."

Emi sighed. "I've got a couple squads from Treize Khushrenada's bodyguard with me, they could use some water and food."

"_Simple comme Bonjour._"

"And twenty-four aircrew in my custody against their will. Wherever you're going after this, would you mind taking them with you?"

That gave him pause. "A little harder, but I can manage. I'm surprised, in the old days, I think you would have put them all in hospital beds or worse. You're getting softer as time goes by," he said, his smile returning. Emi gave him a friendly punch in the shoulder and he looked in Walker's direction.

"And you are?"

"Walker, Seventh Aerospace Division," he replied automatically, like breathing, as Emi departed.

He nodded and offered his hand, which Walker shook. "Guisset, Thirty-Third Division, French Air Army. New unit."

Flight Lieutenant Guisset led Walker to the record room and library in the main building, some distance from the hangars and closer to the unstaffed ATC tower which like seemingly all the base was empty.

"Thirsty?"

"No, thank you."

"Cigarette?"

Walker gave him a look. "I'm not being executed, am I?"

Flight Lieutenant Guisset found this amusing. "No, worse…I think they'll come back in draw up policy. I thought I might spare you the suffering."

"You're not joining us?"

He shook his head. "No, I'm not quite a full member of this conspiracy. When I…heard about Colonel Khushrenada and Brussels, I put in my resignation postdated. I think me and the few comrades I have left will be quite gone when my own commanding officer returns, cowardly as it may seem," he said with a self-deprecating smile.

"May I ask why you're helping us at all then?"

Guisset looked at Walker directly, as though he were about to rebuff him, but instead took a deep breath. "I suppose for…different reasons than you. I knew Emi in the old days, when she was inseparable from another girl, 'Honey'," he explained. Walker noticed that as he spoke, his accent was far more Metropolitan French than it had been previously. "I probably shouldn't say more."

A junior officer had entered in the room, saluted, and whispered something into his hear. "I'll have to excuse myself Walker…but can I offer some advice?"

Walker gave a careful nod.

The older officer stared him down for a few seconds. "You may do well to be a little more ruthless, Walker."

Guisset rushed out with the junior officer, leaving him alone in the well-furnished library, sitting at a table with his folders in his arms and a confused look on his face. He spent a few minutes pondering the other's suggestion while staring at the maps of continental Europe.

_That breakout stratagem, simple as it was, did work. Temporarily dividing our mobile suits and using them to draw out the SPAA threat, while the rest of the force was allowed to route. But that only worked because of the disparity of firepower between us and the Sixtieth Division, which had its arms tied anyway. When the whole Western European Military District or the Earth Army is after us, ruses like that won't work._

Giving up that train of thought, he took the thick folder back out, undoing the rubber bands and looked through the smaller subfolders before finding the Form 78 for the Aries abandoned back in Belgium. He took a pen left on the table and began writing.

_Unit was appropriated by Space Mobile Suit Troops 1__st__ Recon Battalion for combat use against Terrestrial Forces 60__th__ George Cross Division. Unit was discarded at Chièvres AFB after receiving serious damage. _

He was looking for the next form when a loud noise caused him to literally jump out of his seat, and Emi burst back into the room, white leather cape billowing behind her. He found himself snapping to attention before she silently commanded him to sit back down with a gesture of her head and continued speaking rapidly as if she'd only paused for his benefit.

"This'll be the first of many introductions, and we're short on time so let's get this over with. You know me, from First Recon. Walker, this is Flight Lieutenant Anders Köhler," she said, gesturing at the large, muscular Caucasian man that followed her in and stretched his hand out to the smaller Walker. Before he could even take it she continued. "…and this is Flight Lieutenant Albert Köhler. Both of the Scandinavian Air Army, ours, not the Alliance's obviously."

Another large Germanic man followed the first one in, with the same build and the same uniform, indistinguishable except a different style of part in his military-looking hairstyle. He also extended his hand, patiently behind his twin.

"I see," a bewildered Walker said finally.

"We get that a lot," the first Köhler brother explained.

"We wouldn't if you accepted that promotion from Zechs Merquise to the Brussels General Staff," the other brother remarked good-naturedly.

"Shut up."

"You two, stop it. Walker, try and keep up," Emi said quickly, as a smaller man more Walker's size stepped forward from her. "This is Flight Lieutenant Divya Adhikari, of the Mediterranean Air Army."

"And a good friend of the Köhlers," Adhikari added quickly, flashing a smile.

Finally, the smaller woman behind Emi stepped forward. "And this is Flight Officer Ricci," she said, while the small woman with the bob haircut bowed politely.

"Very good to meet you, sir."

"Köhlers, Adhikari, this is Walker of the Space Forces Mobile Suit Troops."

Walker cleared his throat nervously "Pleasure to meet you, comrades," he said, as another round of handshaking began.

"Sit down!" Emi commanded, and they immediately halted and sat. "As I was saying, Walker's our technical expert, reported directly to Treize Khushrenada with research, that's why I've brought him on. He'll start by getting those twelve Taurii operational."

He had an urge to stay very quiet.

"So, that gives us seventeen, plus the six we have at Doullens and the four aboard the _Levant_," Adhikari added out loud.

"Don't…add like that. I don't want to see the Foundation's response is to twenty seven rogue mobile suits," Albert Köhler requested. Adhikari gave a noncommittal shrug in response. "Let's just say we _could _have that many."

"So, I know some of you want to draw up a list of grievances and whatnot like this was the Yorkshire Pilgrimage of Grace, and that's very well and good, but we're putting that aside until we decide our next _immediate _move," Emi explained. Her voice was still authoritative, but otherwise totally unlike what Walker was accustomed to—he could nearly imagine her adjusting a pair of nonexistent reading glasses and looking over a pile of note cards.

"Spoken just like the commander of First Recon," Adhikari added in good-natured gest.

"Yes, it's a misleading name, we know," Emi fired back, a little harsher.

Anders cleared his throat. "Say we have…twenty-seven mobile suits, figuratively speaking," he began carefully. Emi rolled her eyes. "Where would we go?"

"Luxembourg. It has to be Luxembourg," Adhikari replied quickly.

"Even though the military in Luxembourg hasn't…done anything? No uprising, nothing?" Albert asked unconvinced. After just a few minutes, it seemed clear to Walker that they already had established positions for the crisis, whether they'd come to them hours or months ago.

"Do you really think Luxembourg is going to take this sitting down?" Anders asked, as though his brother had something utterly ridiculous.

"What would they be waiting for?" Albert fired back.

"For Treize Khushrenada to be returned to them," Emi explained calmly. Albert remained unconvinced.

"Fine, so we don't wait for Luxembourg or Treize, we haven't so far," Adhikari. "So again, what's our next move?"

"I've been thinking about that," Albert said, leaning across the table. Walker glanced at Ricci out of the corner of his eye; she hadn't spoken either. He took out a small notebook from his bundle of folders and began writing as the other officers continued. "That breakout at Chièvres was a masterful stroke, but more importantly, I think it adequately demonstrated our resolve. I don't think we should rule out negotiating a deal with the Foundation's Board of Governors, via the Brussels staff or the Western European District Headquarters."

Another moment of uncomfortable silence. "…you want to talk this out?" Adhikari asked.

"Why not? We wouldn't be the first successful military mutiny," Albert pointed out.

"Yes, but how many of those made war on the divisional level? And technically speaking, _we _aren't the mutiny, the First Recon Battalion is. Not yet anyway."

"And you _really _think we can still talk our way out of this?" Anders asked his brother, clearly unconvinced.

"Why not?"

Anders threw his arms up in exasperation. "Wait, why not? We just make it clear what our demands are: this is not about the Foundation, or the United Nations, or the G-20. This is about Treize Khushrenada's arrest, clear and simple. We didn't mutiny because we don't like that the Foundation indirectly rules the whole Earth Sphere, that's been the case for sixty years now!"

"How does that even work?" Anders asked.

"Well, for starters, we make it clear that Duke Dermail exceeded his authority. The Foundation Board of Governors probably already feels the same way, but when the shooting starts they hardly have a choice but to support Catalonia's decision. We stop the shooting, we make it clear what our grievances are, and there's a reasonable chance the Foundation will do the rest," Albert explained.

"Without His Grace's order, His Excellency won't be held under house arrest," Ricci muttered quietly from her own seat.

"Exactly, that!"

"A reasonable chance? Really? You think that's still a possibility after First Recon just wiped out a good chunk of the Sixtieth Division in the Foundation's own backyard?" Adhikari asked, his eyes opened wide.

"I didn't say it was going to be easy," Albert insisted.

"This is…I'm sorry, but this is…" Adhikari began.

"Insane?" Anders finished for him.

"Yes, exactly, thank you." Albert gave both men a harsh look that made Walker a little uncomfortable. "Fine, so we make Duke Dermail resign from the Board of Governors. Do you really think the leadership, excluding Dermail Catalonia, could be that reasonable?"

"We don't know that they couldn't be. Who's to say they wouldn't prefer Treize Khushrenada to Duke Dermail?"

"The Foundation has talked about the need for new, younger leaders for years now," Emi added.

"So we're just going to try diplomacy? Less than twenty-four hours after turning part of Belgium into a warzone?" Adhikari asked.

"Well then what do _you _want to do?"

"Seize the initiative," Adhikari declared. The other officers just stared at him, unresponsive to his vague, open answer. "People, this is basic military doctrine. We already have more than two dozen mobile suits. We don't need to go to war, but we make it clear to the Foundation, the Supreme Military Council and anyone else who accepted Treize Khushrenada's resignation that we could."

"So basically the entire Earth Sphere," Albert mumbled. "_This_ is why I wanted to consider our diplomatic options."

"Diplomatic? Diplomatic!" Adhikari repeated, shaking his head.

"Compared to declaring war on the whole Earth Sphere? Yes, I think it is!" Albert defended himself.

That seemed to effect Adhikari, who backed down slightly. "As long as we do something. Emi's put her neck on the line more than once for us, you think we can repay her by sitting on our hands and seeing which way the winds blow? There must be some…legal recourse, right?"

"So what do you want to do? Threaten Dermail Catalonia with an injunction?" Emi asked, sounding amused.

"No, I want to threaten Dermail Catalonia with a nonnuclear Eurasian cruise missile. That'll put the Board of Governors in line! We still have 9K120 theater ballistic missiles in our district, don't we?" Adhikari asked, the fire back in his eyes.

"We don't need to do that," Anders interrupted his colleague. Walker discreetly nodded in agreement, still writing in his notebook when he continued. "We can do that ourselves. I'm a flight lieutenant in OZ, I have two-hundred tonnes of mobile suit, missiles and ninety-millimeter tungsten penetrators at my back, and there are two of me," he explained, gesturing at his chest while his brother rolled his eyes.

"Fine then, let's just kill everyone who disagrees with us, I'm sure that'll help out His Excellency," Albert mumbled, looking at the ranking officer. "Emi, you can't be agreeing with this. I know you had your reasons in Belgium, but honestly…"

Emi gave an apathetic smirk. "Right now, I have hardware at my back to keep fighting, and even take a certain city for a period of time. But even if I won those battles, I don't think I could win the war—I'm not Treize, after all."

The room went silent, each occupant thinking of the same thing. In his mind, Walker pictured the geographic layout of the city of Brussels, converting streets and highways partially circled by an outer road. Brussels International Airport to the northeast, Flanders to the south, a canal cutting through the city and the small but ornate boulevards that surrounded the palaces, estates and ministries of the Romefeller Foundation. Overlaid on that, he visualized the small military units stationed on the city's periphery, forming a near-permanent guard of honor over the area.

After a few seconds of silence, he worked up the courage to speak while still writing in his notebook. "Do you mind if I…?" he began, stumbling awkwardly.

"For God's sake man, please do," Albert said, sounding defeated.

"I think we should be serious here, sirs. We're not strafing central Brussels, and we're not storming the _Grote Markt_ with breaching charges and shotguns." Just a few hours ago, Emi's allies in the CAST had the opportunity to do exactly that, and would have likely succeeded if the timing was on their side.

"Why not?" Adhikari asked, likewise beginning to sound tired.

Anders Köhler gave Emi a look of exasperation, stood back up and began pacing around the room. "I'm sorry, why not? Why can't we go down to Brussels and kick everyone's asses, quick and neat?"

Walker sighed, while Albert Köhler spoke up. "My brother'll say it's stupid, but I agree with Flight Lieutenant Walker."

"Who, me?" Anders asked with feigned innocence.

"Well then explain!" Adhikari demanded.

Albert smacked a large hand against the desk, surprising Walker. "Because we are _knights of the Order of the Zodiac. _This is the Order of the Zodiac. Where you don't just plant false flags and you don't shoot up European palaces!"

There was another period of uncomfortable silence. Walker looked at Albert—as far as he could tell, he was entirely genuine in his statement.

Adhikari broke the silence. "You thought he'd be the only one who thought that was stupid?" he asked methodically.

Albert rolled his eyes in exasperation. Walker resumed writing in his notebook.

"He's right," Ricci added quietly. "We don't, not without orders."

"For what it's worth, I'd give the orders," Emi muttered, her tone neutral. "I do trust the judgment of everyone in this room," she admitted. This gave Walker pause, which in turn he immediately blushed at before resuming his scribbling.

"Really?" Adhikari asked skeptically.

"Come on Ricci, I wouldn't have brought you in otherwise," she declared with an almost-threatening grin to the slack-jawed flight officer to her side. She immediately recovered, albeit awkwardly.

Adhikari sighed. "Well, you're the squadron commander, Emi. And you've heard from your viziers. You make the call."

She gave a calm, confident nod. It was strange seeing her at ease like this. In Walker's mind it brought back memories of earlier days, the immediate aftermath of 'Daybreak', before things had become complicated.

"First things first—can we agree that I'm leading a military unit, and not a democracy?" she asked, her voice clear that this wasn't a joke. Murmurs of agreement followed.

"I don't think time is on our side. I've seen the reports, including Walker's, showing that OZ is ready to field two complete automated divisions once they're transported from Luna to Earth. We're going to see mobile doll deployment in days, not months." Uncrossing her arms, she put them palms-first on the table, leaning towards the others. "The Supreme Military Commission made the mistake in deferring to the Foundation Board of Governors. And the Board of Governors made the mistake of not using the Mobile Suit Troops to stop us. But I don't think they see it that way."

She tilted her head and closed her eyes. "I don't really know how pilots feel about mobile dolls, but I think we're going to find out really soon."

"We may also find out whether or not they actually work," Walker mumbled quietly, surprising even himself.

"He's right," Emi announced. "These aren't the unmanned Taurii we've been using in minesweeping and colony-clearing missions. It's an entirely new ground combat model, one that the design bureaus really haven't had a chance to test in the field."

"Against us."

"Call it a blessing," Emi said, grinning through her teeth. "Don't fuck with me, Adhikari, are those numbers you quoted accurate?"

He shrank back a little, taking a second to answer after visibly thinking on it. "Yes, they are."

She gave a look like daggers to him. "Emi, I swear on it," he said quickly.

"Fine. We've got…four days, maybe a week. I hope you boys slept two days ago, because you're not going to get much any time soon." Some soft groaning followed, taking her statement as literal. "The Köhlers will take the half-squadron they have and sit on it—unless you think you can make it a whole squadron, anyway. In the meantime, get everything you'll need, staff and supplies-wise, Walker can help with that."

For the first time, both brothers nodded in unison.

"Adhikari, the _Levant_, what's its tonnage?"

"Sixty-thousand, but to be clear, it's primarily an aircraft carrier, not mobile suits."

"So you're looking at forty aircraft?"

"Not all operational, not all attack aircraft either, but yes, more than forty."

"Fine. If the Supreme Military Commission thinks all we have to operate with are mobile suits, all the better. In the meantime, we take advantage of their indecision, while it lasts, and see how the rest of the armed forces responds to Treize's resignation and arrest." She stood up straight again. "I think we'll be seeing more incidents like the one I caused outside Brussels."

"And if we don't?"

"Well then we probably deserve what we'll get, won't we?" she asked, that alarming grin returning.

"So then, a compromise?" Ricci asked with some uncertainty.

"As usual. This is why I never asked for a promotion to battalion commander," she said with a sigh.

"Far be it from me to question your supreme judgment, Emi, but then what will you do?" Adhikari asked.

"Technically, First Recon was the earliest battalion to adopt the Taurus for combat use. I've got this crazy idea in my head that if it were ever up to me, I'd equip the whole battalion with the airborne-variant upon return to Earth, and destroy the Alliance or anything standing in my way once and for all," she said, almost wistfully.

"So you're going to call up the reserves? The dozen Taurii you already have are already spoken for by First Recon, and you need more?" Anders asked.

Emi held out her hands, palms towards him. "I'm certain every MS division on Earth is going to want Taurus mobile suits. OZ can barely keep up with their own demand," Albert speculated. "You think you can get more? How?"

"I have ways," she replied coyly. "In the meantime, get in line."

"Fine, fine." Looking more relaxed, Albert sat down in the undersized folding chair beneath him and stretched his legs. "In that case, you should take Walker with you."

"Excuse me?" Walker asked, genuinely surprised.

"You'll need him, won't you? Whatever details on the Aries units we can't cover, Walker can send by the Network. In the meantime, you'll need him on-site to get those new units operational." Albert cocked his head. "Besides, those twelve Taurii you do have are still cherry, aren't they? Raise your hand if you're a qualified mobile suit engineer."

Instinctively, Walker raised his hand while looking at the others; no one else did and he quickly lowered it, embarrassed.

Emi pursed her lips together for a few seconds, her eyes narrowing. "Fine then. I'll take Walker, with his agreement."

"Yes ma'am," Walker spat out, again instinctively. He wasn't really happier with the idea than she was.

"Anders and I will visit the reserve base at Châlons-en-Champagne, it's maintained by a captain who knew Chilias Catalonia—maybe he'll be sympathetic to the Treizists," Albert said, gesturing at his brother who nodded. "If he is, great. If he isn't, we won't press the topic."

"Make sure you're both there. Anders has a fundamental misunderstanding about subtlety and Albert, you'll probably have an attack of guilt and hand over your Aries," Emi speculated. The brothers found this amusing and chuckled together.

"Adhikari?"

"Yes ma'am, the _Levante. _Right now, we're looking at about fourteen-hundred sailors and officers, and six-hundred aircrew, pilots and officers. Plus the three other Aries pilots. All of them Treizists."

"How does that happen?"

Adhikari gestured to Ricci, who cleared her throat and stepped forward.

"The carrier was basically a dumping ground for Baltic Sea Fleet personnel who were on record as having complained about the re-establishment of the Sanc Kingdom, itself a Foundation initiative." She shuffled her feet awkwardly. "That's how I was assigned there."

"Ms. Ricci used to be a naval aviator before she joined the Mobile Suit Troops, she brought the carrier to my attention right as soon as word got out about what was happening in Belgium."

Emi gave Ricci a slight nod before continuing. "So we almost have a plan. All further communication between us will be done by courier until 1 October," she said, checking her wristwatch briefly. "We'll meet again at a secure location to be decided."

She put a hand behind her ear—a sign of thought—before she shook her head. "Forget it. Let's disperse before the Foundation hits Épinoy like they should have hit Chièvres."

Loudly tapping her heels together, Emi gave an approving nod to the other officers as they quickly rose to their feet and stood at attention. "Yes ma'am!"

"Good luck," she muttered. The twins were already chattering among themselves quietly and were the first to leave the room, Adhikari and Ricci following after them. Preoccupied with gathering up his folders and papers, Walker felt a touch on his shoulder. He looked up to see Emi towering over him—more psychological than physical, as when they'd first met, Emi wasn't that much taller than himself—her expression cold and unfeeling.

_She hasn't forgiven me for what happened with Chrysanthemum_, he thought. Walker felt himself go rigid until Emi pulled her arm back and swiftly exited the room, leaving him alone with his forms and notebooks.

The hallways at Épinoy were pure Alliance Air Force: part office building, part school dormitory, part airport and sparsely furnished. The solitary of marble wall in the main building that bore the UESA coat of arms had been left undisturbed, since taking it down would have required heavy machinery, demolition hammers and a replacement wall, but there was no other evidence of the base's previous allegiance. Walker stopped in the lobby, staring at the dull-painted wall opposite the marble inlay where the outline of a missing portrait was visible, a large discolored area just above eye-level. Who had hung there? _Pietro Ventei, maybe? _

On his way to the glass doors that led outside, Adhikari took his arm. "Walker, was it?"

It took a Walker a second to realize the joke, and he wasn't impressed. "What can I do for you, Flight Lieutenant?"

"Sorry to trouble you, but I've got a private request from the brothers."

He raised an eyebrow. "You speak for them?" he asked, making his suspicion as blatantly clear as he could

"As much as any man might. We were all enrolled at Yale together, back in the day." He seemed to regard Walker with detail-oriented eyes. "You go to university?"

"No, I studied at Lake Victoria after passing the UCSE."

"I should have known, I mean, you being this young and all." It was true that Walker looked tired, but so did everyone else. The Köhlers hid it well with by their large builds, but they still looked decidedly older, as did Adhikari. "Anyway back on topic: the brothers want you to keep an eye on Emi as much as possible."

Walker stared at him like he was speaking in code. "I'm sorry, I'll need you to explain."

Adhikari led Walker out through the doors and across the grounds to a stretch of tarmac that cut through almost the length of the airfield, near where Walker's mobile suit was standing.

"…That brings me to my point. You see, Walker, I'm someone who tries to think towards the future, as I think you are…" he continued in a deliberately friendly tone that just managed to avoid being patronizing. "Emi's a different sort of pilot than you or I. Her survival is predicated on predicting the future only to a point, dismissing things that she can't predict. I'm sure you've figured that out."

Walker just gave a polite nod, not trusting himself to answer.

"Whatever she says, you must get her to Treize. In a different life, someone like Emi would be fighting for whoever had the biggest purse, and that's still a possibility, no matter how remote. But what I'm worried about, what we're all worried about, is that after Emi did what we didn't have the courage to, that she might have second thoughts." He laughed, kicking a piece of gravel with his boot nervously. "Why need us? Why not do it herself?"

Walker kept staring at him, looking unamused, and he continued. "No one's giving her orders anymore. She could do whatever she wants, couldn't she?" He put both hands into his pocket. "If the beast knew her own strength, no one could control her," he muttered poetically.

"Excuse me?"

Walker made a point of giving him an impatient, wary look—he could hear the turbofans of another Aries further away spinning back to life, a high-pitched whine he'd never forget. Adhikari seemed lost for words and instead gave a friendly if useless smile.

"Be careful, Walker."

He let a little more scorn leak into his expression. A few months ago, his scorn was almost exclusively reserved for the petty complaints of life—an unintentionally stupid remark from Dac, a predictable technical failure on someone's part—and even then, rarely used. But now, he seemed to pouring scorn at every turn, leaving him surprised at his own reserves. Had he always been so scornful?

He gave the older officer a derisive eye.

"If I'd been careful, Adhikari, would I have followed the beast in the first place?"

"No, I suppose you wouldn't have, would you?"

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author's Note:<strong>_

_As usual, I get the idea that I'm going to publish a nice, short chapter a week ahead of schedule, and I end making it a long chapter, barely on time. I'm totally going to make the next chapter short, I promise._

_Well, what I can promise is an end to the day-by-day, which has become problematic. The next chapter will begin around 1 October, AC 195, since that's basically when the next thing of any notoriety happens. Let's assume Pope Peter Paul II wouldn't be taking a daily meeting on OZ's self-inflicted bleeding, and Treize Khushrenada has a few days off before being shuttled back to Luxembourg, as he is before 8 October, episode 28 of the TV series. By and large, the new manga has followed these events pretty closely (in comparison to the large departures on Trowa's infiltration, what happens to Hilde, etc. I'll need to get caught up myself (damn the awkward pace of translations! damn my laughable understanding of Japanese!)._

_Another thing I run into-I still love the idea of certain, short passages being done as 'narration' portions (particularly in the voice of the English narrator for the TV series, Mr. Campbell Lane, who is the best and possibly sole reason to watch the series' dub I would argue). I've wondered if there's some way to better indicate this-bolding or italicizing certain passages, but ended up resorting to discreet hints that might be beyond my own capabilities, for example, a quiet shift in tense. Of course, that relies on me actually maintaining that subtle shift and not lapsing back into my usual wordy prose. I might just, at the end of each chapter, report the narrated section as it appears-in this case, the paragraph "Before becoming pope..." that takes on a more conversational tone than usual (I hope) is "narrator speech." _

_I hope you enjoyed the celebrity appearances of Peter O'Toole and Jean Reno (who, actually, was born in Morocco to Spanish parents). I know I did-maybe I'm treating my fictional pope as much more than he is, but I certainly had a great time writing him. Really, I think the performances done by Sam Neil and O'Toole (as Cardinal Wolsey and the Pope respectively) are, by themselves, good enough reason to watch first and second seasons of Showtime's _The Tudors, _even though I find myself preferring BBC's _Wolf Hall. _As always, leave your thoughts, compliments, criticism, really anything in a review to motivate my lazy butt, and thanks for reading!_


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